


The Curse of Horemheb

by ImprobableDreams900



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1900s Egypt, Action, Adventure, Ancient Egypt, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archaeology, Art, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Edwardian London, Egyptian religion, Egyptology, Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, It's fun guys, Luxor - Freeform, Mummies, Pre-slash if you like, Temporary Character Death, Thebes, Valley of the Kings, discorporation, mild swearing, obligatory drunk scene, split narrative, theological discussions, two fics for the price of one!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: “The locals call her Bibân el Molûk, but she’s better known as the Valley of the Kings.”Or: Aziraphale and Crowley run into each other in Luxor in 1908 and find themselves confronted with the consequences of actions three thousand years old.





	1. The Empty Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I’ve been sitting on this for like a month now because finals were monstrous and I simply did not have the necessary eight hours to finish it off, but TA-DAH! Done at long last!
> 
> I did an extensive amount of research for this fic, so I hope you’ll learn a thing or two! Nearly every aspect of this fic is historically accurate to the best of my knowledge (see author’s note at the end for more details).
> 
> Thanks to my betas, doctortreklock and spinner12.

**London**

February 19th, 1908

 

Soho was just as Crowley remembered it. It wasn’t a patch on New York City, but it was home.

Or, more precisely, it was the home of a rather friendly enemy, which made it a sort of home for Crowley too.

Though the rows of grey stone terraces seemed almost squat in comparison with the mind-bogglingly tall buildings with which Crowley had so recently become acquainted, there was certainly one thing Soho and New York City had in common: the absolute _racket_.

Horses clopped by on the cobbled road only a metre away, carriages bouncing loudly along after them. The hawking of the street vendors preempted the possibility of carrying out a conversation with anyone standing even directly beside you, though there were certainly enough people trying to anyway. The shouts of a policeman attempting to clear the street for a motor car were only barely audible above the clamour of the masses of people parading along the pavement.

Crowley slowed his pace as he spotted the motor car, craning his head into the street to see around the shoulder of the man in front of him. It was a fine-looking vehicle, of the touring type with an elegant brass-trimmed grille and a handsome coat of blue paint. Crowley would have happily continued watching the fascinating contraption as it trundled past, except whoever was walking directly behind him, evidently as unimpressed by the automobile as by Crowley’s slowed pace, stepped on the back of his heel.

Whoever it was didn’t even have the good grace to mumble an apology, so, as Crowley picked up the pace and strode past where a particularly large puddle of slushy snow hugged the kerb, he loosened one of the kerb bricks with a thought. Crowley had barely taken another step before he heard a scrape and a splash from behind him, quickly followed by a yelp, a much larger splash, and a great deal of alarmed, irritated voices. Crowley allowed himself a small smile as he tugged the brim of his silk top hat down slightly and kept walking.

A few minutes later, Crowley peeled away from the main flow of traffic to pad down a side street, shoes eliciting small splashes from the puddles they encountered. This road was narrower and darker than the well-travelled Oxford Street, but despite the shadow reaching across the road it was still far too early to light the gas lanterns hanging above every door. The shopfronts were of an older style and marked with age and dirt, and small piles of half-melted snow sat heaped against the buildings.

Crowley took another corner onto an ever narrower street, leaving most of the traffic behind. Here, half of the people in the street were lounging against door and window frames, necklines riding low and morals even lower.

A few eyed Crowley up as he passed, noting his expensive suit and solitary nature. Normally, the demon would have stopped to strike up a conversation or perhaps offer his coat during the chillier months, but he had more pressing business today.

A few drunken men staggered out of a tavern in front of him, and Crowley veered to avoid them. He watched without comment as a passing pickpocket made off with one of their wallets without a single one of them turning their heads. Soho really was a marvellous place.

Crowley strode past another brothel, this one masquerading rather poorly as a tavern, making sure to tip his hat to the two young women twirling strands of dirty hair in his direction. He felt his feet slow as he approached the threshold of the next shop in the row, a small pebble skipping away from him across the cobbles.

_A. Z. Fell, Rare Books and Antiquities_ , read the stencilled writing along the shop’s facade. The letters appeared freshly painted—no earlier than the previous autumn, judging from the wear—but the shop looked decidedly abandoned. The interior of one of the decorative bay windows had been plastered over with large sheets of brown packaging paper, and the other one looked like it had had a plank of wood propped up against it from the inside, the end leaning against the glass. The interior of the shop was dark, though there was enough reflected sunlight entering from the street to illuminate the first of a row of bookcases, the mismatched leather spines of the books still meticulously lined up.

Aziraphale was known for taking unusual measures to deter the public from entering his shop, but this seemed a little extreme.

Frowning to himself, Crowley approached the door and tried the handle. It was locked, but Crowley only blinked and the lock obediently retracted its objection to his entrance. Crowley pushed the door open and took a tentative step inside, trying to gauge how long the shop had laid empty by the taste of the dust in the air.

“Aziraphale?” he called just in case, extending his senses in the hopes of detecting the hint of a familiar, divine aura.

There was no response or indication of another presence, so Crowley moved all the way inside the shop and carefully closed the door behind him, the action muting the street noise slightly. He turned back to the body of the shop and waved his hand. A soft ball of light appeared near the ceiling, casting a clean, white brightness over the rows of bookcases.

Crowley strode forward, pausing to glance behind himself at the floor as he did so. He couldn’t see his footprints, and even the bookcases he passed looked fairly dust-free. Aziraphale must not have been gone for long, then.

Crowley reached the spotless shopkeeper’s counter in the rear of the space and frowned at his reflection in the large mirror set into the wall behind it. While he was at it, he adjusted his coat slightly and brushed a speck of something white off his shoulder. Then he turned, exhaled, and surveyed the empty shop again. This time, his eyes fell on the hatstand standing near the door. The angel had put it there the last time Crowley had been here, about four years ago. Even then, it had begun to accumulate quite the collection of hats, coats, and ascots, and it didn’t look like much had changed. As Crowley crossed to it, he saw that there was, however, a single prong for a hat and another single one for a coat that were conspicuously empty, all the other spots taken by one or two garments.

Crowley reached the hatstand and paused next to it, resting a finger briefly on the tip of the coat prong, the painted wood cool against his skin.

“Hm,” Crowley said to himself, and left the shop. The door locked itself behind him as Crowley approached the adjacent brothel, directing his feet towards the two young women lounging out the open window.

One, a brunette who looked to have barely left girlhood, tittered at him and leaned forward, the neckline of her dress pitching even lower.

“Looking for a good time, mister?” she asked invitingly, her south London accent unmistakable.

“Actually,” Crowley said politely, giving her an apologetic smile, “I’m looking for the madam of the house. I believe her name is Constance?”

The brunette leaned back slightly and exchanged a glance with the second woman, who looked a little older, makeup applied liberally to hide the lines under her eyes.

“She knows me,” Crowley explained. “I’m a friend of the bookseller’s.” He nodded in the direction of Aziraphale’s shop.

The older woman eyed Crowley for a moment, evidently debating whether he was telling the truth.

“It’ll just take a moment,” Crowley added.

She frowned at Crowley for a moment more and then turned to the brunette. “I’ll get her,” she said and disappeared from the window.

The brunette looked back at Crowley, and within a second she had melted back into her sales persona, draping a hand languidly over the window frame. “Sure I can’t do anything for you, sweetie?”

Crowley gave her a faint smile. “I’m afraid not.”

She nodded and shifted her gaze to something over Crowley’s shoulder, eyes panning back and forth. Evidently not seeing any easy customers, after a moment she turned her gaze back to Crowley.

“Between the two of us, I don’t think your friend has a very good head for business,” she commented, her voice dropping half an octave into what Crowley recognised as her normal speaking voice. “I mean…a rare books shop in the middle of _Soho?_ This area’s not exactly know for its literacy.”

Crowley smirked slightly. “Where better would you suggest?”

She shrugged and adjusted a strip of faded lace on the sleeve of her dress. “Charing Cross Road seems to be doing a brisk trade.”

Crowley, who knew from personal experience that Charing Cross Road was in fact the most bookseller-congested street in London, was impressed. Perhaps Aziraphale had been trying to instil the virtues of reading in his neighbours again.

“Ah,” Crowley said, tapping the side of his nose with a finger. “But that implies one wants to _sell_ one’s books, doesn’t it?”

The brunette frowned at him and opened her mouth to respond, but before she had the opportunity the nearby door swung open to reveal a woman in a high-collared dress. She held herself with confidence, and though her face showed the marks of middle age and a hard-fought life, her hair was swept up and hidden under a fashionable burgundy velvet hat and her dress could have been worn by a matron in any middling family.

“Mr Crowley, isn’t it?” the madam of the house said with a welcoming smile, gesturing for him to come closer. “It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? Here, come in out of the cold.”

Crowley followed her as instructed, pulling off his top hat as he did so.

“Mr Fell speaks of you often…I understand you were visiting America?”

“That’s right,” Crowley confirmed, glancing around as Constance led him through a mostly-empty front room and through another door into a private room near the back. She stepped around a small circular table, her lace-trimmed skirt sweeping over the floorboards with a sound like rushes over stone. She pulled a crystal decanter from a sideboard and glanced back at him. “Brandy?”

“Ah, no thanks,” Crowley said, slowly moving the brim of his hat through his fingers. “I was really just wondering if you knew where Azir—Mr Fell was? It looks like he’s been gone for a while.”

She gave a snort of amusement. “If you think that because his shop is dark, you should know that he leaves it like that half the time when he _is_ there.”

“I know,” Crowley said, “but he doesn’t straighten up unless he’s going somewhere. Didn’t even have an open book on the counter. And he never gets off his arse unless he has a good reason to.”

Constance made an expression that indicated that she thought Crowley’s point was fair. If she had put together that Crowley had basically just admitted to breaking and entering into her neighbour’s shop, she didn’t comment on it.

“So…” Crowley pressed, “do you know where’s he’s got to, or when he’ll be back?”

“He left about two weeks ago, didn’t say when he’d be back,” Constance said, leaning back against the sideboard, “but he did say where he was going. One of the girls managed to tease it from him, and it was all they were talking about for days. It seemed very romantic, you understand. Enchanted.”

Crowley gave her a puzzled smile. “Where, then?”

Constance’s eyes sparkled. “Egypt.”


	2. The Voyage of the Beduin

**Outside Luxor, Egypt**

February 23rd, 1908

 

It was entirely clear that no one had a higher opinion of Theodore Davis than Theodore Davis.

The man just would not _shut up._

“—eighteen tombs of the ancient families uncovered under my patronage! Though, have you heard? I received a telegram just a few weeks ago that my assistant Mr Ayrton has uncovered a nineteenth!——Yes, yes, we’re not sure yet, but Mr Ayrton—he is the best, you understand—has said that he found some evidence that the tomb might have belonged to Seti II!——I daresay you’re right, but unfortunately so many of these tombs were robbed in distant antiquity—”

Aziraphale was fairly certain that Theodore Davis was speaking to someone, and not just rambling on about his own exploits to remind himself of his own achievements, but from this distance the wind carried Davis’s robust voice much farther than whatever quieter tones his interlocutor employed.

“—it’s all in the _execution_ , you understand,” Theodore Davis’s booming voice continued, the self-satisfaction evident in his tone. “All that small-scale digging was never going to work; it’s just not _methodical_ enough. Economy of scale, that’s what the Valley needed. And, given my experience in the U.P., what better man was there to bring it?” Davis broke off to laugh—at what, it wasn’t entirely clear—and this time Aziraphale faintly heard the forced laughter of whatever unsuspecting fly had stumbled into Davis’s web. Whoever it was would be lucky if they could escape within the next half an hour, an hour if they were anyone of particular note.

Aziraphale adjusted his arms where they were resting on the railing of the houseboat’s prow as it sailed along the sparkling blue, oddly familiar expanse of the Nile. It had been a very long time since Aziraphale had last been here, but, despite the millennia that had elapsed, the shimmering of the sun on the water was just as blindingly bright as it had ever been.

“Ah—Mr Crane, come here, yes, here, my boy, don’t be shy, this is Dr Grafton Smith, I invited him along, how about you tell the good doctor about your experience with Norman at the necropolis…”

Davis’s voice began to fade, and Aziraphale supposed with some relief that he must have decided to take his two victims further astern.

“Unfortunate fellows,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath, rubbing absentmindedly at a mosquito bite on the back of his thumb. The insects were certainly one thing about Egypt he hadn’t missed.

But thankfully, though the trip from London had been dreadfully long and Davis himself a bit…larger than life, it looked now like their journey was almost over.

Aziraphale returned his gaze to the horizon, where the blocky outline of a city straddling both riverbanks had been growing steadily larger. The last time Aziraphale had been here, the city had gone by the names of Thebes, and Luxor had been but a single temple, no more important than its neighbour Karnak, but today Luxor was all the eye could see.

The _Beduin_ churned steadily closer, small waves crashing into its prow as they ploughed upstream. The wind, hot and dry and smelling a bit less clean than Aziraphale remembered it, brushed through the angel’s hair, tangling the blond strands and dropping them back against his cheeks in rather annoying bursts.

Aziraphale reached up to try and tuck some of the longer strands behind his ear, and that was when he noticed that he’d been joined at the bow by a serious-faced man in a khaki-coloured shirt with a red bandana slung around his neck. The man looked vaguely familiar to Aziraphale, and though he couldn’t recall his name, he thought he might have been the new photographer Davis had recruited in Cairo. Davis always seemed to be collecting people, and Aziraphale could think of no reason for this that was not nefarious in nature.

The man—Aziraphale was more certain now that he was the photographer—saw Aziraphale looking and gave him a friendly nod. Aziraphale nodded in return and turned his gaze back to the horizon, where the first outlying buildings on the bank were growing quite near, the reeds along the bank swaying in the breeze.

As the first of the buildings sailed past, Aziraphale let his mind wander back several thousand years, until he was envisioning the regular, rectangular mud-brick houses of the ancient city, with the beautiful stone palace nestled into the hills beyond them. Their lives had all been so much simpler back then, surely.

Housing in Luxor now, it appeared, had improved in material but not in structure, the mishmash of rectangular buildings pressing against each other with the same density as their ancient counterparts.

Twenty minutes later, the boat started to slow, the sails snapping as the deckhands adjusted their course so that they were veering towards the western bank of the river. Aziraphale scanned the skyline until he found what looked like the spot they were headed for. It wasn’t a harbour so much as a small pier built away from the bank, reeds hugging its sides. Aziraphale spotted three of those new motor car things waiting on an adjacent road, kept company by several people, a couple of carts, and a half-dozen restless horses.

The shapes of the welcoming party grew steadily larger as they approached, and Aziraphale left the railing to fetch his suitcase from below, leaving the photographer gazing out over the Nile as though trying to imprint it in his memory. If he remained in Davis’s employment, Aziraphale doubted he would have any trouble regularly refreshing his memory.

Suitcase duly retrieved, Aziraphale returned to the deck and exchanged a few polite words with someone he thought was another of Davis’s newly-appointed ‘assistants.’ That was something else that rubbed Aziraphale the wrong way: everyone Davis hired, regardless of their professional credentials, immediately became an ‘assistant,’ mere facilitators of his own brilliance.

As though reading Aziraphale’s mind, Davis took that moment to appear, a rather regretful-looking man in a dusty suit following a half step behind. Davis planted his feet and took a theatrically full breath, gazing out over the pier to the riverbank. Behind his circular wire spectacles, his eyes twinkled as he looked out over Egypt as though ready to personally colonise it. Unfortunately, the British had already beat him to it.

“Dr Smith!” Davis declared, letting his breath go all at once, the movement tickling the underside of his comically oversized moustache.

“Yes?” asked the downtrodden-looking man in the dusty suit at his elbow.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I laid eyes on this wondrous place, nearly twenty years ago?”

With some effort, Aziraphale tuned out Davis’s words and focussed instead on the uncertain pitching of the deck underfoot as the boat was steadied against the pier. A mosquito landed on one of Aziraphale’s exposed arms and he swatted at it ineffectually. He did not think he would regret leaving this place.

At long last, the boat was moored and drawn as close to the tiny pier as possible. A wide, sturdy gangplank was produced, and a few nimble deckhands scampered across it to make sure it was secure. Once it was, Theodore Davis was the first to cross, breaking off his very one-sided conversation with Dr Smith to take the arm of a slender woman in a long green dress who Aziraphale was vaguely aware wasn’t his wife, but acted like it.

Once they’d strolled off the boat, everyone else formed into a jumbled queue to follow, nearly everyone carrying at least one modest-sized travel bag. Aziraphale harboured no doubts that the deckhands struggling with three huge matching green suitcases behind him were very aware of the exception.

Aziraphale edged his way into a spot near the front of the informal queue, eager to be on dry land again even if it meant putting himself closer to Davis and his overinflated ego in the process. He took special care watching where he was putting his feet as he crossed the gangplank, but as he reached the end he looked up and over, towards the bank, and lost a step. Standing on the bank, smiling and waving his arms to grab his attention, was an incredibly familiar figure.

Aziraphale tripped as he stepped onto the pier, only barely catching himself in time. He straightened up and continued along the pier as quickly as he could, alternating between making sure he didn’t bump into the person in front of him and staring at the figure he was half-convinced was a product of his own imagination.

But when he reached the bank, feeling a little breathless and not knowing why, and wove through the small crowd to where Crowley was waiting for him, the demon seemed very real indeed.

“What—what on _Earth_ are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked in a single breath as he reached Crowley, his suitcase feeling suddenly very light in his hand. “Weren’t—weren’t you in _America?”_

“I was, yeah,” Crowley said cheerfully, giving him an incredibly bright smile. Behind tinted green glasses, his eyes seemed merrier than usual. “New York City, Chicago, L.A.; from sea to shining sea.”

“Yes, but—” Aziraphale ran out of breath as well as the words to properly express his bewilderment. “But why are you _here?”_

Crowley’s smile turned into a mischievous smirk. “I could ask you the same thing, angel.”

Aziraphale drew a breath, feeling a little offended. “I hardly think I need to explain myself to you,” he said, more haughtily than he’d intended.

The cheerful expression on Crowley’s face faded slightly.

“It’s—you know,” Aziraphale said, backtracking and casting his mind around for the right thing to say. “Heaven business.”

Crowley nodded, accepting this information better than Aziraphale had thought he would.

“And you’re here because…?” Aziraphale prompted, still stuck on how Crowley had materialised in front of him, on this _exact_ bank in Luxor.

“Oh, the usual,” Crowley said. “Hell business.”

Aziraphale frowned, trying to piece the implications of that together.

“There I was,” Crowley continued unprompted, “minding my own business in New York City: the Modern Gomorrah, the Empire City itself, and Beelzebub pops up like he does and says I need to go to Luxor, of all places! I got in last night, stayed in this really posh hotel called the Winter Palace. It had a restaurant with some incredible food; you would’ve liked it. Anyway, then this morning I was talking with Izem over there—” Crowley gestured to where one of the deckhands was talking with a dark-skinned man holding a ledger, “and I got ahold of the passenger lists when he wasn’t looking, and I just so happened to see one of your innocuous little pseudonyms among them, Mr _Fell._ ”

Aziraphale grumbled something under his breath.

“In any case,” Crowley continued brightly, “I hear your friend Mr Davis has quite the reputation in these parts.”

“He’s not my _friend_ ,” Aziraphale said, “and it’s not what I’d call a _good_ —”

“Ah, here he comes now!” Crowley spoke over him, turning his attention to something over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale turned quickly, hastily letting his voice die as he did so, and suppressed a grimace when he saw the slightly portly, energetic figure of the financier steaming in their direction, no less unwavering than the _Beduin_.

“Mr Davis!” Crowley greeted, a broad smile crossing his face as Davis reached them. Crowley extended his hand and they shook. “You must forgive my intrusion, I am such an admirer of your work.”

Davis gave Crowley a puzzled smile and looked back and forth between the two supernatural beings. When Aziraphale failed to produce an introduction, Davis said, perhaps a little sharply, “Mr Fell, is this charming young man a friend of yours?”

Aziraphale coughed. “Uh, yes, of course, he’s from…Albania.”

Crowley’s smile grew fixed, and Aziraphale would have bet good money that, had Davis not returned his attention to the demon at that moment, Aziraphale would have been on the receiving end of a scorching glare, tinted glasses or no.

“Is that so?” Davis said, looking Crowley up and down appraisingly.

“That’s right,” Crowley said calmly, but Aziraphale could tell from the tightening of the skin around the sides of his eyes that he was conceiving something particularly nasty for Aziraphale. “But I spend a lot of time in London, and I’m recently back from America.”

“Really?” Davis asked, lighting up. “How’s she doing? I’m a Rhode Island man myself, you understand.”

“Indeed I do,” Crowley said quickly. “I’ve followed your career quite avidly. Your work in Michigan was inspired.”

The satisfied look on Davis’s face told Aziraphale that Crowley had said exactly the right thing.

At that moment, there came the sound of a nearby whistle, and the three of them looked in the direction of the motor cars and horses, which were busily being burdened with luggage and several small crates from the boat.

“We’ll be heading out soon; how about you two gentlemen accompany me in my automobile?” Davis asked graciously.

Crowley’s expression morphed to show the extent of how flattered he was, and Aziraphale barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “As long as we wouldn’t be intruding.”

“No, no, of course not,” Davis said breezily, and turned to walk back towards where the trio of motor cars sat gleaming in the bright sunlight. He motioned for Crowley to walk alongside him, leaving Aziraphale to trail behind, the suitcase in his hand growing heavy again.

He took a moment to worriedly mull over what Crowley might have meant by ‘Hell business,’ but his musings were interrupted when Davis and Crowley came to a stop in front of him. A man in a checkered grey and brown suit had approached Davis, and the American financier had stopped to shake his hand vigorously.

“Ah, the man of the hour! Mr…Mr…what did you say your name was?” This last was directed at Crowley.

“Anthony Crowley,” the demon supplied, shaking the newcomer’s hand. Aziraphale sulked behind them.

“Yes, Mr Crowley here has just been telling me about his time in New York City. This is Mr Edward Ayrton, my primary assistant here in the Valley. Just last month he discovered my latest tomb! He is the absolute best money can buy.”

“You flatter me, sir,” Ayrton said modestly. Aziraphale, curiosity piqued—he had heard much about Ayrton while on the endless cruise up the Nile—moved so he was standing next to Crowley.

Davis ignored him but Ayrton turned and extended his hand to Aziraphale. “American as well?” he asked politely, his own accent betraying a west London upbringing.

“English,” Aziraphale corrected, and it was true enough. Ayrton’s handshake was firm and brief, and Aziraphale remembered the reputation he had earned of doing all of the actual work while Davis took in the sights and greased palms. Seeing him now, a full six inches taller than Davis and as thin as a rake but tanned under the merciless Egyptian sun, Aziraphale had no difficulty imagining that this was perfectly true.

“And Mr Crowley is actually Albanian,” Davis added, gesturing at Crowley as though he were a particularly interesting butterfly pinned in his collection.

“Is he now?” Ayrton asked in surprise, turning his attention back to Crowley. “Your English is remarkable.”

“I grew up in London,” Crowley supplied, and the slightly pointed look he sent in Aziraphale’s direction conveyed all too well his distaste with this lie.

Davis missed their exchange but Ayrton gave them a slightly puzzled smile. “Any friends of Mr Davis are friends of mine.”

Davis made a self-deprecating noise rather like a paternal chortle and waved his hand in the direction of the nearest of the motor cars, which looked slightly newer than the others, if the relatively thin layer of sand clinging to its fenders was anything to go by. “Come, come, you must tell me all about this new tomb…your telegram said you suspected it had belonged to Seti II?”

Ayrton took a moment to lift his white panama hat towards Aziraphale and Crowley before allowing himself to be led away by Davis.

“ _Albania?”_ Crowley hissed in an undertone to Aziraphale as they fell into step a pace behind the two humans. “What in Someone’s name—”

“He’d already asked me about all of my British connections,” Aziraphale whispered back defensively. “It would have been suspicious, since I didn’t mention you before.”

“You could have said I was American,” Crowley hissed.

“I didn’t know if you’d already told anyone you’d just got back from _visiting_ there,” Aziraphale protested quietly.

“People can _visit_ places they’re from!” Crowley shot back in an undertone. “Especially when they’ve got bloody _British accents_.” He smacked Aziraphale in the arm.

“I—I panicked, okay,” Aziraphale admitted, rubbing his arm.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’d better hope they don’t ask me about Albania, ’cause bugger all if I know anything—” He broke off as they reached the motor car, Ayrton stepping aside to allow his financier to climb in first. Davis did so, and as he plopped down on the leather seat he turned back towards Crowley and Aziraphale.

“You two gentlemen can climb into the back; don’t worry, she’s a smooth ride. Are you familiar with the Crawford Automobile Company?”

Crowley brightened, and this time Aziraphale couldn’t tell if his enthusiasm was fabricated or not. The demon pulled open the small square door to the backseat and pulled himself up into the car. “I’ve heard my fair piece. Bit of a motoring enthusiast, actually.”

“I know the founders,” Davis said, twisting in his seat to address Crowley, “and nothing beats good old American engineering!”

Aziraphale eyed the motor car warily as Ayrton clambered into the driver’s seat, and then gathered his nerve and pulled himself in after Crowley, grabbing onto the edge of the frame to steady himself.

“It’s truly amazing,” Crowley agreed as Aziraphale cautiously manoeuvred into the vehicle, setting his suitcase on the floor by the demon’s feet. “Actually, right before I left New York I watched the start of the Great Race. It’s New York City to Paris, and they go the long way round—west, up across Alaska, through Asia, and all the way to Paris.”

“Now _that’s_ the spirit we need more of these days,” Davis agreed emphatically. “On with progress, I’ve always said!”

Crowley nodded enthusiastically and opened his mouth to say something else, but Davis had already turned around and thumped Ayrton on the arm. “Off we go, Edward. The others will catch us up, I’m sure.”

Ayrton nodded and pulled a lever near his seat. Aziraphale, who didn’t understand in the least how the contraption worked and didn’t care to, gripped his armrest, which doubled as the frame of the car, very tightly. It wasn’t the first time he’d been obliged to travel in a motor car, but doing so always made him feel ill at ease.

Crowley sat back as the car jumped forward, stuttered briefly, and then picked up speed. The brim of Ayrton’s panama hat fluttered slightly, but even the movement of the motor car failed to stir enough of a breeze in the hot, still air to threaten to whisk it from his head.

They bounced over a patch of uneven ground and Aziraphale tightened his hold on the armrest, as though it might somehow save him if the contraption fell apart beneath him. Crowley glanced over at him, and he must have noticed Aziraphale’s unease because his expression grew slightly concerned. Aziraphale shook his head and closed his eyes, wondering if it was possible to grow as sick from the jostling movement of the motor car as it was from the rolling seas.

“Any news from Cairo?” Ayrton’s voice asked as Aziraphale kept his eyes closed and tried to centre himself. And _this_ was what they called _smooth_.

“Carter’s off digging in Deir el-Bahri,” Davis said, voice dismissive. “What he and George expect to find over there is anyone’s guess. Load of sand and rocks, I imagine.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Ayrton said fairly. “Carter’s a smart man.”

Davis grunted. “I should hope so; he worked for me for a few years, don’t forget that.” He paused as the car lurched to the left. Aziraphale wished he were back on the boat.

“He’s probably trying to break new ground while my resources are elsewhere,” Davis picked up once the car’s motion smoothed out again. “By the time I’m done with the Valley—and it won’t be long now, I’m sure of it—there won’t be a single buried gem left to find. That’s the advantage of digging _systematically_ —if you do it willy-nilly you’ll never know when you walked right over a nineteenth-Dynasty pharaoh to scrabble in some dirt!” Davis chuckled at his own joke, and Aziraphale imagined Ayrton assuming a polite smile. Davis tended to have that effect on people.

There was another brief moment of silence, and Aziraphale felt something touch his arm. He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked over at Crowley, who’d nudged him. The demon tilted his head forward meaningfully.

They’d left all but the outskirts of Luxor behind, and rising ahead of them was a line of tall, sandy ridges. The strong sunlight lit up all of the southern planes, highlighting them in bold yellows, oranges, and reds while casting their opposite sides into dark, desaturated shadow. The rugged bluffs sloped downwards to where, almost directly ahead of them, a deep valley cut through the rock.

“The locals call her _Bibân el Molûk_ ,” Davis announced, almost fondly. He turned in his seat to address Aziraphale and Crowley as the car kept speeding forward, following the winding road reaching up into the valley.

“What’s…” Aziraphale began, but his mind was already drifting into the distant past as his eyes raked along ridgelines that, despite three thousand years of erosion, appeared so very much like they had the last time he had been here.

“Wow,” Crowley said quietly as they crested a slight rise and the view became even more familiar, and Aziraphale knew the demon was thinking along the same lines as he was.

“…but she’s better known as the Valley of the Kings,” Davis finished. He raised his bushy eyebrows at them, and the stunned expressions on Aziraphale and Crowley’s faces seemed to satisfy him. “The tombs of over fifty pharaohs have been found here already, though most of them had already been robbed before we got there. I’m hoping Mr Ayrton here—” He turned back in his seat and clapped the archaeologist good-naturedly on the arm, causing the car to swerve slightly, “—can find me one still intact!”

“We have good odds,” Ayrton agreed. “Though, I was going to mention, another group of archaeologists has set up at the western end of the Valley. I thought it might have been someone working for the Earl of Carnarvon at first, but when I spoke with one of them all he would say was that they were from the south—Italian, I reckoned—”

Ayrton kept talking, but Aziraphale’s entire attention had been absorbed by the unfolding of the valley in front of them. It was almost hypnotic, how eerily similar it all was to memories he had long since considered forgotten. He only distantly registered Crowley pushing his tinted glasses up into his hair so he could have an unobstructed view.

“Doesn’t look a day over three thousand, does it?” the demon asked in an undertone, but there was still a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale replied numbly, the first folds of the rocky hills beginning to rise above them as they sped through the mouth of the valley. The individual ridges of earth inside the valley started to become visible, and Aziraphale vividly recalled the entrances to royal tombs that had littered the slopes, many guarded day and night and lit by torch-bearing poles that had been erected along the winding pathways.

Now, the slopes had been worn away, in some places considerably, and the elegant torches had been replaced with haphazardly-hung electrical lights. They were speeding towards what looked like a camp, if the tawny-coloured tents, piles of supplies, and distant people milling about were anything to go by. Though each tent must have been at least five metres wide, the temporary settlement seemed tiny, dwarfed by the sheer size of the slopes rising up on either side of it.

And Davis was a man of his word: a great deal of the valley looked like it had been torn to pieces. Huge piles of freshly-overturned earth, rock, and sand lay scattered over the landscape, marring the raw natural beauty. Aziraphale would have been upset about it, except that it hadn’t been so very different in antiquity, actually.

“’S bigger than I remember it,” Crowley said quietly next to him, and Aziraphale turned to see the demon craning his head around to look back the way they’d come. Aziraphale did the same, and, over the huge cloud of tawny dust being kicked up behind them, he could see the green and grey edges of Luxor hugging the Nile.

Aziraphale glanced back over at Crowley. “Have you been here since…?”

Crowley shook his head. “You?”

“No.”

The motor car continued streaming through the valley, keeping to the northern side and approaching the collection of tents. They veered off the main road as they neared the settlement, and Aziraphale saw that they were headed for a place where the valley suffered a particularly deep wound. Dozens of workmen were flowing into and out of a dark square hole cut into the side of the hill, each one carrying a basket of broken stone and other debris.

“Here’s KV56,” Ayrton said to Davis as he drew the car up to an out-of-the-way outcropping of rock and brought them to a lurching halt. “As I said in my telegraph, we found _an_ intact burial of what appears to be a royal child, perhaps Nineteenth Dynasty, and these really fascinating silver gloves and some other jewellery we’re keeping under lock and key at the camp.”

“Excellent work. I always said you’d go far,” Davis said, already beginning to climb out of the car. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got here…” He was halfway to the tomb entrance, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, when he seemed to remember Aziraphale and Crowley, still sitting in the backseat and looking a little overwhelmed. He turned back and took a few steps towards them. “Would you two gentlemen like to…?” he began.

Crowley recovered first, quickly flicking his tinted glasses back down to cover his serpentine eyes. “We’ll just stay here and wait for the others, that’s all right,” he said quickly.

Davis needed no further persuading, and he only nodded cheerily and waved at Ayrton to hurry up. The archaeologist scrambled around the car’s bonnet to meet him, adjusting his white panama hat as he did so.

“Watch your step when you get closer; some of the stones are a little wobbly,” Ayrton said, and followed after Davis as the financier marched towards the tomb entrance with the air of someone taking what was rightfully his. He raised a hand and shooed the dark-skinned, white-robed workmen out of the way with an impatient wave. “There now, lads, you can all take a little break…”

Davis strode eagerly into the tomb, and a moment later Ayrton’s lanky frame folded to follow him in.

Crowley climbed out of the motor car and Aziraphale slowly followed him, again laying a steadying hand on the frame as he stepped down onto the running board and then to the thankfully solid ground.

“That Mr Davis is really something, eh?” Crowley asked, tugging at his silk tie to loosen it. “However did you end up with him?”

“Convenience,” Aziraphale grumbled, trying to hide the fact that his legs were quivering as he pulled his suitcase out of the car. “He wouldn’t have been my first choice, believe me, but I needed to get to Egypt and he was the only person my connections could scrounge up.”

Crowley smirked and pushed his tinted glasses back up into his hair. “You need better connections, angel.”

“Well, he _is_ the world’s leading Egyptologist, you know,” Aziraphale snapped, setting his suitcase on the ground.

Crowley grimaced. “Don’t I know it.”

Aziraphale frowned, remembering Crowley’s flattering exchange with Davis when they’d met. “Hang on, you knew all about him, earlier. Something about Michigan?”

“Oh yeah, that. Heard about him when I was in America. He’s a bit of a legend, even over there. Cut a bunch of canals and drained enough swamps in the Upper Peninsula so it could be opened for copper mining. Made a small fortune because of it, too.”

Aziraphale grunted, and when Crowley didn’t add anything else he returned to scanning the valley, abruptly remembering what he was here to do. His eyes tracked along the line of the ridge nearest them. Behind them, the rock had been hacked to pieces, showing Davis’s signature systematic destruction, but the swath of ridge beyond this tomb and the nearby camp was still smooth and largely intact. Evidently the discovery of this tomb had slowed their progress down, and it was a good thing, too. He’d arrived just in the nick of time.

He saw Crowley watching him and quickly switched his gaze to something further along the valley, pretending to take in the whole landscape. “It’s funny, how little it’s changed,” he commented.

He heard the demon make a sound of agreement from beside him. “I saw the pyramids, in the distance, on my way here. Of all the places, all the cities—Babylon, Ur, Sidon, even Alexandria—to imagine—just—” Crowley broke off, struggling for words. “Time destroys everything,” he settled on at last. “We know that better than anyone. And to think…this place is the exception.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley and saw him staring off into the distance, expression pensive.

“Yeah,” he agreed, turning his gaze back to the valley and admiring the way the sun lit up the swathes of sand and rock. A mosquito landed on his arm and he swatted at it irritably, breaking the spell. “I wouldn’t have minded an improvement in the climate, though.”

Crowley smiled and leaned back against the Crawford, putting his arm up on the top of the car door. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, angel; this is fine weather.”

Aziraphale glowered at his friend and waved irritably at another—or perhaps the same—mosquito. “As any _normal_ person would know, it’s unbearably hot out here, and it’s not my fault you’re accustomed to the fires of damnation.”

“I like to think it’s because I was cold-blooded in another life,” Crowley said wistfully, ignoring Aziraphale’s jibe.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, all too familiar with Crowley’s propensity for seeking out warm places. He always _had_ liked Egypt more than Aziraphale. “If you say so.”

There was a faint, distant rumbling, and the pair of supernatural beings turned to see the other two automobiles bouncing their way towards them, followed at a distance by several horses and their riders.

“Here comes Mr Davis’s _entourage_ ,” Aziraphale said with some distaste.

Crowley, evidently picking up on Aziraphale’s tone, raised an eyebrow in his direction. “No respect for the best and brightest minds in Egyptology?”

Aziraphale snorted. “That’s a made-up discipline if I’ve ever heard of one. It’s all just history, surely? And besides, they’re more like the richest and luckiest.”

“Oh, but it’s all in the name of _progress_ ,” Crowley said cheerfully, moving away from where he’d been leaning against the car and gesturing around the valley, his gesture encompassing the great piles of earth, the Crawford, and the electric lights. “Look at this all, angel. Artificial light, horseless carriages—and you should have seen Chicago and New York City. Do you think—” he hesitated, his arm falling back to his side as he watched the cars trundle closer, “do you think, back then, we could have ever imagined all of this, could have _imagined_ all the complexity?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Maybe not the particulars, but the general outcome, yes. Just follow the trend of human technology to its inevitable conclusion. Heaven’s ineffable plan, conceived right at the beginning. It couldn’t possibly have gone any other way.”

Usually Aziraphale’s introduction of the _i_ word would have garnered some challenging statement by Crowley, but he didn’t seem to mind it today.

“I like to think we could have,” Crowley said, still watching the cars bounce closer, the heavily burdened horses plodding along after them. “That we wouldn’t have underestimated the humans. They _are_ awfully clever buggers, and always have been.” An isolated burst of wind drifted across the valley, sending curly blond locks across Aziraphale’s face and ruffling Crowley’s shorter strands like trees caught in a whirlwind.

“You always were more forward-thinking than I was,” Aziraphale said reassuringly. “I’m sure, if one of us could have foreseen all of this, it would have been you.”


	3. A Question of Cosmology

 

[[on tumblr](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/173955271208/aziraphale-and-crowley-in-ancient-egypt-click)]

 

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

“The world will never be more civilised than this!” Crowley declared, brandishing the terracotta mug of beer he’d managed to sneak out of the pharaoh’s inaugural party, the fifth such celebration in two months. “I bet you _three_ cowsss—”

“No bet,” Aziraphale said immediately, taking extra care to watch where he was going as they started down one of the flights of steps in the massive palace complex, his sandalled feet clumsy on the stone, “and besides, you don’t even own any— _hic_ —any cows, you _silly_ serpent.”

“Equiiiiivalent exchange,” Crowley offered cheerfully.

“Still,” Aziraphale insisted, “no bet.”

“Aww, come on, angel,” Crowley tried, leaning over and gently bumping Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own. Or, presumably he’d intended to bump it gently, but instead they collided a little forcefully, making Aziraphale almost miss a step. “Sssorry,” the demon offered. “But surely there’sss sssome angelic knowledge sssaying the world’sss going to get ssso much better or sssome sssuch rubbish, isssn’t there?”

It took Aziraphale nearly as long to parse out Crowley’s slurred, hissing speech as it did for Crowley to say it, and then he drew himself up slightly. “Like I would tell you such a thing, even if— _hic_ —it did exist.”

“Oh, come now, where’sss the harm in a little chat between friendsss?”

Aziraphale coughed. “We’re not frie— _hic_ —ends, demon.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and started across the smooth, multicoloured pavement towards the next flight, the faint moonlight and occasional torch their only guides.

“Ssssssso,” Crowley slurred, path weaving slightly, “you’re sssaying you won’t take thisss?” He held the mug of beer out in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Ssseeing as we’re not friendsss and you wouldn’t take beer from a ssstranger?”

Aziraphale scowled and, despite a very strong urge to grab the beer and take another swig, restrained himself. “Of course not.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, retracting his hand and staring down at the mug. He smiled a little, teeth shining faintly in the dim light, complementing the gleam of his golden eyes and earrings. “More for me, then, thanksss.” He raised the terracotta mug and it wavered in his hand. “Here’sss to old Horemheb.” The demon slowed to a stop as he tilted his head back and drained the remainder of the mug’s contents, some of the beer dribbling down his chin.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in distaste, feeling a little unsteady on his feet as it was. He should never have allowed Crowley to convince him to try alcohol in the first place, but ever since then he’d grown rather fond of it despite himself. Luckily, so far he’d managed to avoid wine; as the Egyptians said, it was the drink of the devil. Though Aziraphale tried to keep his drinking at reasonable levels, things had admittedly got a little out of hand when he’d bumped into Crowley at the pharaoh’s banquet earlier that evening and allowed himself to be challenged to a drinking competition.

Something lurched unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s stomach at the memory. The last few rounds had definitely been a bit too much.

When Crowley had drained the mug, he lowered it and blinked owlishly for a moment, swaying on his feet and looking a little out of sorts. Then he stared down at the empty mug and tossed it dismissively to the ground, where it clattered loudly and rolled away, unbroken.

“Don’t litter,” Aziraphale chastised, but followed Crowley anyway when he lurched back into motion, heading towards the next flight of steps.

“Ssseriousssly,” Crowley hissed, “have you ssseen how inter—intra—how connected everything isss becoming? Conquer here, conquer there, and all of a sssudden—” Crowley mimed an explosion with his hands. “Trade everywhere! Did you—did you know—”

They were nearing the top of the next flight of steps, where a guard, evidently unlucky enough not to get invited to the new pharaoh’s party, was standing with a spear in one hand and a sword at his belt, looking tired and very bored.

“Guard, heeeey, yesss, you,” Crowley said loudly, stumbling over and clumsily laying a hand on the guard’s arm. The guard, looking suddenly far more awake and a bit uncomfortable, leaned away slightly and adjusted his grip on his spear. Aziraphale staggered after Crowley, feeling like he should do something but not particularly sure what.

Crowley, oblivious to the stiff posture of the guard, leaned closer to him. “Would you—would you mind lending me your sssword, good sssir?”

“Uh,” said the guard, trying to push Crowley away gently. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Naaah,” Crowley slurred dismissively, and reached for the hilt of the guard’s sword himself. By all rights, the guard should have been able to easily knock Crowley’s hand aside, or else somehow arrest his motion, but instead Crowley drew the guard’s sword from his belt in a single fluid motion. The guard’s astonishment was reflected on his face as Crowley, sword in hand, took two quick steps backwards, putting himself out of the guard’s reach.

The action showed a surprising speed on Crowley’s part considering his condition, and Aziraphale had the sudden, half-formed thought that maybe Crowley wasn’t quite as drunk as he had seemed. This alarming notion had just finished dragging itself across Aziraphale’s sluggish mind when he registered Crowley approaching him with the sword in his hand.

Aziraphale took an unsteady half-step back as the guard lurched forward, voice jumping in volume. “Stop, give that back!”

Without really knowing what he was doing, Aziraphale raised a hand in the guard’s direction, motioning for him to stop. In the same heartbeat, Crowley reached Aziraphale and ground to a halt, the angel easily within striking distance. Crowley was still holding the sword out in front of him, the tip of the curved blade less than a foot from Aziraphale’s bare chest. The moonlight highlighted the sharpness of the weapon, but also gleamed with equal lustre off the elaborate jewelled necklace resting across Crowley’s clavicles, his circular hoop earrings, the gold decorations in his wig, and the flecks of gold around his painted eyes.

For a single heartbeat, Aziraphale was absolutely certain that he had made a terrible miscalculation, but then, in the next, Crowley had twisted his hand. The blade spun down and Crowley moved the hilt closer, showing Aziraphale the intricate decoration on the pommel and grip. “Sssee, angel, it’sss bronze—”

The guard reached them and roughly grabbed Crowley by the shoulder, yanking him backwards and away from Aziraphale, reaching for his sword with his free hand as he did so. “Stop, I said—”

“Ge’ off!” Crowley protested, trying to shake his arm free. “I am the Overseer of the Royal Gardens!”

The guard paused and released Crowley, evidently realising that, if what Crowley said was true, he was considerably outranked.

Crowley shook his shoulders and, after casting the guard—now looking appropriately repentant—an irritated glare, he returned his attention to Aziraphale and the hilt of the sword.

“This is bronze,” Crowley stated without the hint of a slur. “It’s copper and tin, and they get the tin all the way from _Britain_ , can you believe that?”

Aziraphale blinked and took Crowley in again, as well as he could with the alcohol muddying his thoughts. The demon looked earnest and not at all like he intended on turning the blade of the borrowed sword on Aziraphale, but he also looked considerably more sober than he had before. A little ill at ease, Aziraphale banished some of the alcohol from his own bloodstream, wincing a little as he felt the coolness of the night air for the first time.

When he saw Crowley still looking at him intently, Aziraphale ground out a, “Quite interesting.”

Crowley nodded and lowered the sword, his point made.

Aziraphale processed what Crowley had said. “Britain, really? But who’d ever want to go there _?_ ” From what Aziraphale remembered, the island was awfully cold and rainy.

Crowley brought the hilt of the sword back up and motioned with it towards Aziraphale, as though to emphasise his point. “ _Traders_ , that’sss who. _Trade_ , angel; it’s changing the world.”

Aziraphale, who really had no opinion on the matter, shrugged and nodded.

Satisfied, Crowley turned and handed the sword back to its owner. “There you go, sssee? Not so hard.”

“My deepest apologies, sir,” the guard said quickly. “I didn’t know—”

Crowley waved away the guard’s words. “No harm done. Now…” Crowley gestured vaguely at the man’s chest. “Get back to…whatever it is you do.”

A look of relief crossed the guard’s face. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Have a good night, sir.”

Crowley mumbled something affirmative and started making his way down the flight of steps. Aziraphale trailed after him, feeling a little confused about the whole incident.

They walked in silence for a while, both of their feet a little steadier now, though Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the occasional hiccup. He reflected on what Crowley had been saying earlier.

“What about the Olmecs?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said the world couldn’t be more civilised than this,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But it’s not like Egypt is the end-all be-all of Creation, is it?”

“No,” Crowley agreed after a beat, “but it _is_ one of the pinnacles. And I said the world couldn’t be _more_ civilised—the Olmecs aren’t _more_ civilised, they’re _equally_ as civilised.”

“They practice human sacrifice.”

“Not _often,_ ” Crowley protested, though when Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him he amended, “Okay, so not _quite_ as civilised, but the point still stands.”

Aziraphale grunted.

“Just look at how _stable_ Egypt is,” Crowley continued as they started down another flight of steps, moving steadily further from the heart of the palace. “Stability means a civilisation is doing well for itself, that it’s struck a good balance. You know as well as I do that nothing in Egypt has substantially changed in the last thousand years, apart from technological improvements, of course.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Tell that to Akhenaten.”

Crowley made an unhappy noise deep in his throat. “We agreed to never speak of that again. That art was _weird_ , it was _bad_ , he was clearly _crazy_ —”

“He built a city.”

“A _small_ city, which has since been utterly abandoned, as well it should be.”

Aziraphale snorted. “They’ve struck his memory from the official record, did you know that?”

“ _Precisely_ ,” Crowley said eagerly. “Egypt knows what’s good for it, and Akhenaten’s particular brand of—of— _individualism_ was not one of those things.”

“If you say so,” Aziraphale said, unconvinced. “But I think your _stability_ is more like wishful thinking.”

“All right, all right,” Crowley allowed. “But in terms of _civilisation_ —just think about it. What could humanity possibly produce that it hasn’t already? They’ve built pyramids that have been there for a _thousand years_ already. The harvests are plentiful, they’re making some _amazing_ food, we have wine and beer and running water, and tin from as far away as man can sail. _Books_ , which you so enjoy collecting, and acres of gardens, and this great palace, and sunshine and summer all year long—what more could man desire?”

Aziraphale considered this. “I’m sure the slaves aren’t too fond of it all.”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “There will always be slaves, but, if you ask me, this lot has it good. Always fed and watered, and plenty of work to go around.”

“What about that walkout a couple of years ago by the workers at the royal mortuary?” Aziraphale reminded him. “They weren’t being given their rations.”

“Aberration,” Crowley dismissed.

“You can say what you like about slaves,” Aziraphale said with an annoyed huff, “but they’re the reason I’m here.”

Crowley made a face. “Not _more_ of this ‘God’s chosen people’ lark, _please_.”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale protested. They had turned and were walking between two tall rows of date palms now, the dim shadows of their slender trunks patterning the walkway in dark stripes. “God promised that he would lead them out of Egypt, and I am certain that He will.”

“And to their deaths,” Crowley grumbled. “You know it’s a desert out there, right? It’s really not so bad here, even for them.”

“It is God’s will,” said Aziraphale, who privately agreed with Crowley very much. He had gravitated to Egypt because he had a duty to look after God’s chosen people, but he wasn’t eager for the prophecy to be fulfilled any time soon. As Crowley had said, it was nice here. There were lots of books.

“Dunno why they aren’t _all_ God’s chosen people,” Crowley muttered. “They’re all descended from Adam and Eve, after all.”

“It is not my place to question the ineffable plan,” said Aziraphale, who said that whenever he didn’t have a good answer.

“It’s never your place to question the ineffable plan,” grumbled Crowley, evidently having noticed this habit.

Aziraphale could think of no suitable response for that, so he stayed silent.

After a few more moments of walking under the shadows of the date palms, Crowley said, “We should go and visit the Olmecs again. I liked them.”

Aziraphale coughed. “You liked that they worshipped you, you mean.”

Crowley frowned. “So that means I can’t appreciate their other qualities?”

“It does strain credulity.”

“But I’m suggesting leaving here to go there, and they love me here too.”

“Not as much.”

“Hey, snakes symbolise kingship here,” Crowley protested. “Power, and royalty, _divinity_ , if you’d believe that, and immortality—heh, one out of five isn’t bad, right?”

“Just because they believe something doesn’t mean that it’s true.”

“How do you know that?” Crowley asked, sounding far too eager about the whole thing. “How do you know that snakes aren’t divine, and that Osiris and Ra and all the others aren’t real?”

“It’s not true.”

“But do you _really_ know?” Crowley pressed. “How can you—”

Aziraphale stopped and Crowley followed suit.

“Crowley,” he said sternly, turning to face his friend. “You are a _demon_. I am an _angel_. We have both been to Heaven, you spend half your time in Hell, _that_ is the truth, not some half-baked tale about…about…men with bird heads or something.”

He started walking again, and he didn’t like the way Crowley cheerfully hurried to catch up. “You only say that because you _belong_ to that world, that… _religion_ ,” he said.

Aziraphale cast Crowley an exasperated glance. “Well, _yes_.”

“But how do you _know_ , really _know_ , that there isn’t something—something _else?_ Another God, another bloody ineffable plan, another set of angels and demons, belonging to an entirely different cosmology?”

“No such things could exist,” Aziraphale said confidently. “Father would know about them.”

“Hmm,” Crowley said. “But what if, in that other religion, their deity is also omniscient, and what if He—or She, let’s not be unfair—can’t see _us?_ ”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“The humans,” Crowley argued, “don’t know we’re an angel and a demon. We blend in. What if we’ve been interacting with divine emissaries from another God all this time, and never noticed? Like the new pharaoh—what if he was some sort of angel from another religion?”

“You realise that is precisely what the Egyptians believe,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Eh, actually, they _used_ to believe that, but now they think he’ll just join with Amun and Osiris in the afterlife—but look, that’s beside the point—”

“Your point is nonsense, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “The Egyptian religion has no consistency. Like you just said, first the pharaoh was a god on earth and now he’s just a god when he dies. That whole Akhenaten business is just the same.” They had left the date palms behind and were walking beside a wall covered with beautiful reliefs and columns of elegant hieroglyphics. Aziraphale stopped and pointed to the nearest figure, a man in Egyptian clothing with the head of an ibis.

“Look at this,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Do you believe in this?”

Crowley tilted his head to get a better look at the figure. “I don’t think you’re getting what I’m saying, angel.”

Aziraphale jabbed his hand at the ibis-headed god again. “Do you believe in this…this…ridiculous poppycock? It’s heresy, you know that.”

“Well, when you put it that way—”

Aziraphale sighed and dropped his hand. He supposed Crowley was just trying to get into his head somehow, and that this was some complicated new temptation designed to make him doubt, but he didn’t know how to steer Crowley away from this train of thought. “Which god is this?”

Crowley glanced at the wall again. “Thoth.”

“He’s Thoth today,” Aziraphale said. “He was Aten yesterday, he’ll be Amun tomorrow. There’s no historical continuity, Crowley, you should know that. You studied this more than I ever did.”

“Clearly,” Crowley said. “Thoth was never Aten, I can’t imagine him ever becoming Amun, and, frankly, you ought to know him better, seeing as he invented writing.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “He didn’t invent writing, Crowley. He’s not real.”

“Says the angel the Hebrews believe in.”

Aziraphale gave another, louder, exasperated sigh, and gave up. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, and returned to walking along the path. Crowley quickly caught up, undeterred.

“Why would it be so bad?” the demon pestered. “Why would it be so bad if we weren’t the only ones, if our Hell and Heaven weren’t the only other places that existed?”

When Aziraphale didn’t reply, Crowley continued, “The Egyptians believe the world is divinely good, you know that, right? They’re so optimistic, so _confident_ because they know they’re doing the right thing. They call it _maat_ , you call it the divine plan. What about that is so bad?”

Aziraphale refused to grace Crowley with a response, and the demon carried on, “When they die, the Egyptians believe that all they need to get into Heaven are some magic words and good intentions. Heaven is just like Earth, except without hardship and cruelty. The grain is always tall and the land is always peaceful. Tell me what is so wrong with that.”

Aziraphale stopped walking and turned to his companion, his words a bit sharper this time. “Crowley, look. I don’t know what’s brought this on, but it’s really ridiculous. It doesn’t matter if the Egyptians believe in eternal peace or talking orange hippopotamuses; it’s not _real_. It will _never_ be real, and there’s no sense deluding yourself or trying to tempt me into doubt. _This_ is the way the world is, and that’s just all there is to it.”

Crowley frowned, and this time when Aziraphale resumed walking Crowley was slower to follow.

“I know that,” he said at last. “But…it’s nice to think it might not be.”

Aziraphale let out a breath, noticing as he did so that they were nearing the square where they usually went their separate ways. “What, you want to switch religions, is that it? Tired of angels and demons?”

Crowley didn’t reply, and when they stopped in the square Crowley avoided his gaze. “Forget about it,” he said. “It was stupid, you’re right.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously, unwilling to say anything that might constitute as sympathy for the enemy. “Glad you’re talking sense again,” he said stiffly.

Crowley nodded, still avoiding his gaze. “Tell Pathtumon I say hi.”

Aziraphale almost laughed, but held it back. “I don’t think I will.”

Crowley shrugged. “Whatever. See you later.”

Crowley turned and walked away, in the direction of his house, and Aziraphale looked after him in puzzlement. The demon was an enigma, that was certainly true.

Shaking his head a little, Aziraphale turned and walked in the opposite direction, towards his own home.

 

 

**The Valley of the Kings**

February 24th, 1908

 

“The buildings were just _so tall_ ,” Crowley said excitedly, perched on a rather battered-looking wooden chair not far from where Aziraphale was ineffectually fanning himself with an open book. “There was one, called the Singer Building, that was _forty-seven floors_ tall. Can you imagine that? It looked like it went on forever. Talk about the Tower of Babel. And then there was another one that wasn’t quite as tall but was wedge-shaped! It was incredible.”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale said, casting his eyes around distractedly for any better means of fanning himself. Unfortunately, most of the things under the tent looked quite heavy.

“And New York City is going have an underground train system just like London—they opened the first underground line when I was there. I heard London got some new lines, too, I’ll have to check those out. Oh! And there’s this place in New York City, they’re calling it Times Square, and on New Year’s Eve there were so many people—just, thousands upon thousands—and they lit off fireworks.” Crowley’s eyes glowed with the memory. Aziraphale set down the book and reached for a nearby hat.

“Granted,” Crowley allowed a moment later, “it wasn’t so great when bits of the fireworks rained down on everyone, still on fire and all that, but it was quite a show nonetheless. I went to Chicago too, and California. I was in San Francisco before the earthquake, thank goodness, but it sounded terrible, from the news reports. They were calling it an Act of God…”

The hat turned out to be slightly more effective than the book, but not by much. Aziraphale set it down and stared out of the tent at the line of distant workmen, heads swathed in white turbans and arms wrapped around baskets of rubble. The sound of distant pickaxes had been audible all day.

“And I learned so much about motor cars,” Crowley continued happily. “I simply _must_ get one someday, they’re incredible; the record speed is something like ninety miles per hour, can you believe that? I’d love to go that fast—hey, where are you going?”

“Walk,” Aziraphale said shortly, stuffing the hat onto his head and making his way out of the tent and into the glaring heat of the Egyptian sun. It wasn’t cooler by any stretch of the imagination, but at least there was a bit of a breeze.

“But I haven’t told you about these things called ice cream cones yet!” Crowley protested, scrambling after him.

The demon had been like this all day, and even the previous evening, after they’d settled into their places at the camp. Crowley had always been the more talkative of the two of them, but this was a little excessive. Aziraphale didn’t find the change disagreeable at all, but it _was_ somewhat suspicious.

Or, rather, Aziraphale knew he _ought_ to find it suspicious, but instead it was…oddly endearing.

The truth was, sometime during the last century, as Crowley had indulged in a very long nap, Aziraphale had come to the somewhat horrifying realisation that he _missed_ the demon. After Crowley had returned to the land of the waking in 1896, Aziraphale had only seen him intermittently, but had immensely enjoyed the times they were together. Obviously, this was not a desirable situation for an angel to be in, so Aziraphale had done his best to quash his feelings on the matter. He had tried to keep Crowley at an arm’s length the last few years, a plan simplified by Crowley’s decision to head to America less than a decade after waking up. He had been sad to see the demon go, but had consoled himself with the knowledge that it was for the best. But now…

Despite the fact that he knew Crowley was here on business—and business that likely seriously hindered Aziraphale’s ability to get his own job done—there was a worryingly large part of him that was absolutely delighted to see Crowley again, good-natured rambling and all.

The walk, Aziraphale hoped, would clear his head.

Unfortunately, Crowley had evidently decided to accompany Aziraphale. “Oh, I’ve got to tell you about this ship I took back to—across the Atlantic,” Crowley said quickly, keeping up with Aziraphale easily as the angel strode across the sand towards the western end of the valley. “It was called the _Adriatic_ , okay, and it’s one of the best ocean liners that the White Star Line has. It’s unbelievably fast; it only took a week to get back to Europe.”

Aziraphale gave an impressed grunt as he continued walking, adjusting his direction so he could start up one of the rises, hoping to get a better view of the valley.

“You should have been there; you would’ve loved it,” Crowley said brightly, following Aziraphale off the main path. “It had an indoor swimming pool _and_ a Turkish bath. _Inside_ the ship, can you imagine that?”

“Seems a bit much,” Aziraphale commented as he climbed higher, loose rocks shifting under his feet.

“All in the name of luxury,” Crowley said cheerfully from behind him. “I’ve got to take you on one sometime—if you ever want to, we can go see New York City; they’ve got a great library, you’d love it.”

Aziraphale’s interest was indeed piqued, but he supposed he’d have to wait a bit longer to see it. “I’d like that,” he said. “Someday.”

“No reason to wait,” Crowley said from behind him, words accompanied by the rattling of stones underfoot. “The place is changing so fast—that whole country is, really—who knows what it’ll look like in a hundred years, or even fifty or ten.”

“But you just got back,” Aziraphale pointed out, ineffectually wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his equally sweaty hand as they moved higher. “I’m sure you don’t want to go back so soon.”

“Eh, I don’t mind,” Crowley said with that same unruffled cheerfulness. “Lots more to see.”

Aziraphale turned that over in his head, a little bemused, and then reminded himself that Hell had called Crowley away prematurely; he’d probably planned to stay in America for another five years at least. “Ah,” was all he said, fixing his gaze on a reasonably flat-looking patch of ground ahead of them and deciding to make that their destination.

They reached it not long after, Aziraphale breathing rather heavily and regretting having conceived of the idea of a walk in the first place. The view was decent, though, the valley spread out in front of them like a map. To their left, they could see the camp they’d just left, the figures of the workmen moving back and forth in their lines like ants. Davis called them _fellahin_ , and with a bit of searching Aziraphale could find the _reis_ , the Egyptian foreman, directing their movements like their queen. They were still excavating the tomb Ayrton had found in January, causing them to slow in their systematic mining of the land between the tomb entrance and the camp. On their right, the unblemished slopes of the valley extended northwestward, the tip curving out of view.

“Nice view,” Crowley commented as he caught his breath next to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale grunted agreement and scanned the valley. He weighed his options carefully. He was here for a very specific reason and had only a vague idea of how to go about succeeding in his mission. The problem was, he hadn’t counted on Crowley being here. And if Hell had a hand in the game, things could go pear-shaped very quickly.

The best-case scenario was that Hell was after something else entirely and his and Crowley’s meeting was complete coincidence. Maybe they could both carry out their business in peace and leave. And if they weren’t working at cross-purposes…Aziraphale could use an extra pair of hands.

He eyed Crowley. He’d been trying to suss out the demon’s mission all day, but Crowley hadn’t done anything besides follow him around and try to talk his ear off. The only reason for this that he could imagine was that Crowley was trying to prevent Aziraphale from wandering off alone to carry out his mission, something he was so far succeeding fantastically at.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said carefully, uneasily coming to a decision, “what do you say we go visit an old friend?”

Crowley looked at him askance. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale tipped his head meaningfully to their right, towards a portion of the hills that so far showed no signs of Davis’s digging efforts. The area was easily out of sight of the camp and workers, due to a sharp turn of the valley, but it would certainly be reached by Davis’s workmen within the next week or two.

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze, and Aziraphale watched him search his memory for the significance of that particular patch of sand. Then he blinked in surprise. “Horemheb, you mean? Whatever for?”

“Old time’s sake,” Aziraphale offered, and started walking back down the slope, this time in the direction of the patch of land he’d indicated.

“Er…okay,” Crowley said, trailing after him. “Though he’s not really an old friend, you know that, right? Neither of us actually knew him.”

“Close enough.”


	4. Heaven & Hell

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

Aziraphale was a creature of habit.

This had become clear to Crowley within the first decade in which they had lived in the same city together. The proximity required extra vigilance, and Crowley had originally met this need by spying on Aziraphale. Now that so much time had passed, Crowley no longer felt the need to spy near-continuously. For one thing, Crowley had better things to do with his time. For another, since Aziraphale did the same four things in the same sequence every day, he only needed to shadow him one day a month to have a reasonable estimate of where he was and what he was doing at any given time.

So when Aziraphale failed to stay late reading through scrolls at his work one day, Crowley immediately grew suspicious. Since his own job entailed overseeing all of the extensive palace gardens, Crowley spent a great deal of time walking all over Thebes, and he had taken to glancing towards the scriptorium whenever he strolled by, usually in the late afternoon. When Aziraphale was there, he almost always sat near the window, where he could get the best light and also a nice cross-breeze. But this afternoon the space beyond the window had lain empty.

Perturbed, Crowley had ventured inside just to confirm Aziraphale’s absence, and then decided that something must be afoot. Aziraphale was not only a creature of habit because he liked to be; he was a creature of habit because he was _lazy_. And the only kind of work that would have inspired him to get off his arse and do something was the kind that came from Heaven.

The angel, in other words, had been given a mission.

And given that Crowley’s real job description included disrupting the plans of angels, he felt no shame whatsoever in heading over to Aziraphale’s house very early the next morning to confront him about it. He aimed to arrive well before the angel would even consider leaving for the day, regardless of how motivated he was feeling, which resulted in a very early morning for Crowley.

This was in part because Crowley’s morning routine was time-consuming and in part because they lived almost on opposite sides of the city. Crowley occasionally considered moving closer, so when he did need to spy on Aziraphale or otherwise keep an eye out, he didn’t have so far to go, but sometimes the distance was an advantage, because the angel could be _insufferable_.

The sun was considering breaking over the horizon when Crowley started his long walk across Thebes, carrying out last-minute adjustments to his bracelets and rubbing extra pine oil onto his dark skin, the motion releasing a faint, flowery fragrance.

About half an hour later, Crowley reached Aziraphale’s house, where, ignoring the door altogether, he brushed back the curtain and climbed in through the window. Whereas Crowley’s house was spacious, beautifully painted, and featured a large garden, Aziraphale’s was small and rather cramped. It didn’t help that what little space he had was overflowing with scrolls and sheets of papyrus that Crowley was not entirely convinced the angel hadn’t nicked from the scriptorium.

Crowley finished climbing through the window and dropped soundlessly onto the floor of what had probably once been an office, though any identifying features had long since been buried under piles of scrolls. He dusted himself off critically and immediately started surreptitiously paging through the sheets of papyrus lying nearby on what might have been a desk.

When Aziraphale walked through the doorway a few moments later and jumped almost three inches, Crowley fought back an amused smile.

“You have a lot of scrolls, you know that?”

“My wor— _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said sharply. “ _What are you doing in my house?”_

“Wishing you a good morning,” Crowley said, flipping through another few sheets of papyrus. He was surprised to find a senet board underneath them, and wondered what other treasures had been lost underneath the paper dunes. “Do you ever think, ‘maybe I should have fewer books’?”

Crowley didn’t have to see Aziraphale’s face to know that the angel was scowling at him. “More effective is a book than a decorated tombstone,” he said sternly.

“What’s that from?” Crowley asked sardonically, rifling through another stack of papyrus sheets.

Aziraphale sniffed. “One of the texts the apprentice scribes copy. But it’s true.”

Crowley made an impressed noise, pausing on a sheet of papyrus with an interesting geometric figure inked on it. “I didn’t know you actually taught the scribes. I thought ‘supervisor’ was just another word for ‘person who ignores the students and reads books all day.’”

“Are you here to insult me?” Aziraphale snapped, slapping the papyrus sheet out of Crowley’s hand.

“I’m here to wish you a good morning, I thought I already said that?”

Aziraphale scowled again and marched out of the room, grabbing one of his multicoloured, beaded bracelets from next to a pile of scrolls on the way. “Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered.

“Why am I always the villain here?” Crowley complained, following Aziraphale into the angel’s entrance hall, this room a little larger and similarly stacked with half-collapsed piles of papyrus scrolls.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said humourlessly. “I wonder.”

“No need to be snappy,” Crowley said airily, following Aziraphale across the hall and into yet another room, where the angel ignored him and picked up his round cosmetic box. Aziraphale had initially resisted the trend to wear eye cosmetics as literally everyone in Thebes did, citing it as indulgence in vanity, but he had eventually given in. In addition to generally looking nice, the dark grey galena reflected sunlight and made life in the desert a lot easier. Personally, Crowley supplemented his own appearance with the bright green mixture made from malachite, mostly because it drew extra attention to his eyes. That was something particularly enjoyable about living in a culture that idolised serpents: the Egyptians found Crowley’s slitted golden eyes fascinating instead of repulsive. It was a nice change.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale said as he swivelled the lid of the ivory box open and began mixing the galena powder with a nearby tray of gum and water. “Pathtumon might see you.”

Crowley made an unimpressed noise. “Pathtumon can shove his head—”

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke over him, picking up a matching ivory stylus and swirling the tip through the dark mixture he’d created. “You should take him more seriously.”

“He’s obnoxious,” Crowley complained.

“He could kill you.”

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale could kill him too, and nothing had ever come of that. “He never comes down here and brushes shoulders with the plebes anyway. Wonder if he was at the party last week.”

Aziraphale glanced at him and then started carefully applying the galena along his bottom lids. “He most certainly was not. I believe he was working out details with Paramessu—sorry, I suppose we’re supposed to call him Ramesses now.”

“I think we’re supposed to call him ‘pharaoh,’” Crowley suggested. “Or maybe ‘king of the dualities.’”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley grunted affirmation, watching idly as Aziraphale finishing applying his makeup and started wiping off the stylus. “I heard Prince Sethi is the new vizier. He’ll probably do a good job, what do you think?”

Aziraphale glanced at him. “I think you’re not here to talk politics.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re right.”

“I am amazed,” Aziraphale said sarcastically, reaching past Crowley to grab his linen mantle from near the door.

“Do you know what I think?” Crowley asked rhetorically as Aziraphale pulled the mantle around his shoulders and tied the ends together, the sheer accordion folds of the fabric fanning out over his tanned shoulders. “I think you’re worried about good old Path showing up here because you’ve spoken with him recently. I think Heaven wants you to do something.”

“Whatever makes you think that?” Aziraphale asked tensely, his voice betraying the truth of Crowley’s words even as he brushed past the demon. He grabbed a few scrolls from near the door and made his way out of the house.

Crowley followed him, satisfied he had Aziraphale right where he wanted him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“So what if I am?” Aziraphale asked evasively, refusing to look at Crowley as he marched down the street in the direction of the scriptorium. “I’m an angel. I work for Heaven.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s your _fault_ ,” Crowley said, following Aziraphale doggedly. “Just that it’s a _fact_.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, and for a few moments they were both quiet, Aziraphale still marching along determinedly in the direction of his workplace.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said at last, sternly. “Why are you following me?”

“Hmm? Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just thwarting you.”

“You can’t thwart me.” Aziraphale said with equal severity. “You’re not an angel. Only angels can thwart.”

“Hmm…that doesn’t sound right to me,” Crowley said, watching Aziraphale’s expression grow steadily more irritated. Usually he quite enjoyed getting on the angel’s nerves, but Aziraphale seemed more stressed and distracted than usual. Heaven must have given him something really awful to do.

“Go away or I’ll smite you,” Aziraphale snapped and kept walking, adjusting his grip on the pile of scrolls in his arms as he did so.

“‘Go away or I’ll smite you, _please_.’”

Aziraphale stopped walking, turned to Crowley, and smacked him quite hard with the bundle of scrolls. “Listen to me, Crowley, I’m serious. Stay out of this.” Aziraphale’s tone was harsh, but there was something else in his voice as well. “It’s for your own good.”

Crowley wasn’t afraid of Aziraphale’s empty threats, but when he searched the angel’s eyes he was a little unnerved by the unease he found there, mixed with something almost like distress. Then Aziraphale turned and, hugging his scrolls to his chest, fast-walked down the street and took a corner so he was out of sight.

For a moment Crowley stared after the angel, and then he slowly rubbed his arm where Aziraphale had smacked him. The mission Heaven had given Aziraphale must be very grim indeed. The angel was nigh on unshakeable, and he almost certainly had a better nose for danger than Crowley did. If he was worried about something, then there was something afoot worth worrying about.

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek and, after a moment’s thought, turned and started slowly walking in the direction of the nearest palace garden. He needed some time to think, and Aziraphale needed some space.

And then he was going to figure out whatever mission Heaven had given Aziraphale, and thwart it.

 

 

**The Abyss**

A Very Long Time Ago

 

Crowley didn’t mind Hell all that much, at the beginning. It wasn’t so very different from Heaven—there was less Heavenly light, sure, and singing and praising God and all that, but that had kind of been the point.

When Crowley and half of Heaven Fell, the Abyss opened itself to accept them, a something created out of nothing. It was as empty and blank as an unpainted canvas. None of the Fallen angels knew what they were supposed to do in this strange, featureless new world. It was clear that their Father had been displeased by their actions, but none of them had yet realised the extent of that displeasure. They had been sent to this place, but there was nothing intrinsically bad about it.

Crowley hadn’t meant to Fall. The earliest memories he had were of tending the Garden, and he guessed that that had been his job. By the time Eden had been turned over to the humans, Crowley had spent little time in the rest of Heaven. With his work finished, he had searched for new meaning and friends to help him find that meaning, but few had been available. The angels had already formed into cliques, and no one seemed very interested in adding an introverted gardener to their group. No one except the rebels, of course. They would take anyone.

All Crowley had to do was nod along, swear the same oaths and shake his fist at all the right parts, and he was accepted as one of them. For the first time, he found himself invited to events, even if they were somewhat unnerving rallies where Lucifer preached the wrongness of their Father. But Crowley was happy to have been included, for the opportunity to be a part of something larger than himself.

Lucifer declared that it was wrong of their Father to set the humans above the angels, and it was for this sin that they were cast into the Abyss. The Abyss was dark, but not evil. None of them, not even Lucifer, were truly evil. That would come later.

Since Crowley could shift into an animal—a talent possessed by no other angels, Fallen or otherwise, as far as Crowley could tell—they sent him up to Eden to entice the humans into sin. They wanted to take the humans down a rung in their Father’s eyes; that was all. To show Him that they whom He had placed above the angels were no more infallible than the angels themselves.

The way Crowley saw it, nothing was really at stake. They had been cast from Heaven, but that wasn’t so terrible. The Abyss was just another place, a time-out zone imposed upon them for their impertinent behaviour. Even if humanity joined them there, it would not be such an awful fate. Not that Crowley thought that that was a likely scenario, considering how much God doted on Adam and Eve. He would not do anything too harsh to his favourite creations.

Only after Crowley had done his part and run across a rather bored-looking angelic guard would he learn that, instead of casting humanity into the Abyss with the Fallen angels, God had stripped them of their immortality. The full ramifications of this would not become clear for several centuries.

Crowley was received in the Abyss with a hero’s welcome for the work he had done. For a short time, a drop in the bucket of eternity, he seemed to have real friends. He had proven his mettle as a rebel and finally earned his place among his delinquent friends. But, in the time following God’s showy expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden, no further news was forthcoming. Crowley’s fame faded, and within the month he found himself alone again.

Decades later, Abel died at the hands of his brother and his soul went to Heaven. Centuries after that, Adam became the next of the humans to die, and Eve followed a few years after that. Their souls went to Heaven, because that was where human souls went.

And then Cain died. God had forced him to wander the Earth after he had murdered Abel, and even put a mark upon him so that no one could kill him. And, in the end, no one killed him. He was crushed when his house collapsed on him and died of asphyxiation as his lungs caved in, causing him to drown in his own blood.

But then, in a sharp and wholly unforeseen divergence from the established pattern, Cain’s soul appeared in the Abyss.

At first, everyone was convinced that it had been some sort of mistake. Human souls went to Heaven; all the evidence pointed to that being a truism. The Fallen angels avoided Cain’s soul, wondering when God would realise the mistake and send someone to correct it.

When no one arrived, the Fallen began to doubt. God had so professed his love for humanity that there was no conceivable reason he would not fetch his beloved from the Abyss.

And then one of the Fallen, a particularly dark-minded spirit called Asmodeus, decided that, if God was being slow to retrieve His wayward son, that was His business. Asmodeus struck the first blow against Cain, and a few others joined in. They stopped quickly, not wanting to do anything more potentially damaging to themselves than bloody Cain’s nose. Again, they waited for God to send angels to rescue the human soul.

No one came, and Asmodeus struck out again, more boldly this time. A few of the Fallen beat Cain bloody one night, many of the Fallen watching, shocked and uncertain, from a distance. Cain screamed as they invented torture, and it seemed more certain than ever before that God would come to rescue His beloved.

But God didn’t come, and neither did any angels, and slowly the Fallen realised that He had forsaken Cain. And, for Him to allow the Fallen to inflict such pain without punishment—surely that meant that they had been forsaken too. Crowley and many of the other Fallen angels had believed their residence in the Abyss to be temporary, and that once God had summoned enough divine forgiveness they would be allowed back into Heaven, their sentences served. Only now was it becoming clear that this might be a permanent arrangement.

Some of the Fallen cried out to their Father, fearful that this might be the case and wishing to make amends. Others fell upon Cain, digging in with blades, fire, and anything else they had to hand, struggling to find the line at which things had gone too far, the point at which God would not allow His creature to be tormented any further.

Cain screamed and screamed and screamed, and God did nothing.

None of the Fallen would ever hear His voice again, or see His face. Only rarely would they hear of His will, passed through the angels. The worst part was the knowledge that, if God did not care for the creature He had taken such pains to set above the angels, then there was no chance He would ever care about those angels who had Fallen.

The entire Abyss echoed with Cain’s screams and sobs, and Crowley could not bear it. It had never left his mind that the only reason Cain was mortal in the first place was because _Crowley_ had enticed Eve to sin in the Garden. Crowley had never meant to cause anyone harm, and the enormity of what he had done was only now becoming clear to him.

When no one was looking, Crowley went up to the Earth. He couldn’t hear the screams there, though they echoed in his mind as he walked through a beautiful green valley, wildflowers sprinkled over the slopes as though placed there by raindrops. There were colours here that were so rare in the dark, blank Abyss, and he was forcibly reminded of the beauty of Eden. He sat in the grass and looked at one of the flowers, and wondered if, if he spent enough time admiring its delicate beauty, he could be absolved of his crime. If there was ever anything he could do to make up for the way Cain had begged for the mercy of a Father who had abandoned him, and how Crowley had put him in that position.

Crowley walked across the Earth for a long time, and at length he saw a figure picking its way across a field, the wind swirling the long grasses into unknowable patterns. As Crowley neared, he was surprised to see that he recognised the figure—it was the angel he’d spoken to briefly in Eden, the one who had guarded the Eastern Gate.

He watched the angel emerge from the area of the field with the thickest grasses, pausing to shake out his huge white wings. As the angel folded them and continued walking, Crowley thought that perhaps this was someone he could be friends with. Very few of the Fallen showed any interest in speaking to him anymore. Some of them seemed to be of the mind that they had not been beyond redemption before they had sent Crowley into the Garden, and that perhaps that had been the critical turning point.

But he and the angel had had a perfectly civil conversation in Eden, and Crowley did so very much want a friend. Even Hastur and Asmodeus had friends. He didn’t even need more than one; he just thought that it would be nice to have someone to talk to about everything. And, eventually, if it wasn’t asking too much, maybe that someone could one day absolve him of his crimes, if only in name. As it stood, Crowley had no one and nothing to fill his mind with apart from the screams and the knowledge of what he had done.

He approached the angel with a tentative smile. It took the angel a moment to see Crowley, focussed as he was on minding where he was putting his bare feet, and another moment to recognise the figure of Crowley approaching him. He scowled.

“What do you want, _serpent?”_

Crowley came to a slow stop a few paces away, keeping the hopeful smile on his face. “We met in the Garden. I’m Crowley.”

“I don’t care,” the angel said coldly, and Crowley felt his smile begin to fade. He remembered the angel from Eden differently. “I’m stuck here on this awful rock because of you, you know.”

Crowley’s smile faded further, and he looked down at the angel’s feet before realising that by ‘rock’ he’d meant the Earth.

“There’s mud absolutely _everywhere_ ,” the angel continued, lifting a foot in disgust, “and it’s cold and it keeps raining, so thanks for _that_ , demon.”

Crowley cocked his head at the angel in puzzlement. “What’s a demon?”

The angel scowled at him. “You are, you—you— _fiend._ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“I bet you don’t,” the angel muttered, and turned and started slogging away through the mud. Crowley, who didn’t mind the mud one bit, nor did he the rain—though admittedly the cold was unpleasant—started after him.

“I didn’t mean to…to…” Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what it was he’d done that had upset the angel so much, but he was eager to make amends. “I’m sorry about the, uh, mud.”

“Go back to the Abyss, demon.”

There was that word again, and though Crowley didn’t understand its meaning he could tell from the way the angel said it that it wasn’t good.

“What’s your name?” Crowley asked, forcing a smile back onto his face and jogging after the angel as he walked faster, wings folded irritably behind him. They looked like they could do with a good preen.

When the angel didn’t respond, Crowley offered, “There’s a really beautiful river a few miles north of here, if you wanted to—”

The angel spun on him and Crowley broke off, lurching to a surprised halt as he saw the anger in the angel’s eyes.

“If you do not go away, demon, I will smite you.”

Crowley had only a vague idea of what smiting was, but it sounded like a threat, and the angel looked more than capable of making good on his word. For the second time, his smile faded.

“I only meant—”

“I don’t want to talk to you, to someone of your—your— _kind_ ,” the angel spat. “Don’t you understand that?”

Crowley didn’t understand at all, but was beginning to feel like he had done something very wrong indeed. “My _kind?”_ he echoed. “But we’re both angels…?”

The angel narrowed his eyes at him. “ _No_ , we’re not. _I’m_ an angel. You’re a—a—an _abomination_ , a rejection. The—the flaw in the plan, the rotten apple in the barrel, the _serpent_ in the grass. You’re a _demon_. You’re _evil_.”

Crowley could only blink at the venom in the angel’s voice, feeling something very heavy settle over what little hope had managed to survive his time in the Abyss. Crowley had never felt the need to mask his emotions before, but he tried to for the first time, struggling ineffectually to hide how deeply the angel’s words stung.

The angel glared at him a moment longer, and then, evidently satisfied with the crushed expression on Crowley’s face, turned and stalked away as he best he could, mud squelching under his feet.

Crowley gazed after him wretchedly, and for the first time he wondered if the Fall had changed something intrinsic about him, and if that was why God didn’t love him anymore.

The angel’s shape began to dwindle in size as Crowley remained rooted to the spot, the wind playing over his skin and promising rain soon. It appeared that he wasn’t welcome in Heaven or by its denizens, and as much as he liked the sprawling green fields of Earth, he knew they weren’t for him. He had had his time in the Garden, and in the bright perfection of Heaven, and God had cast him from both. He _had_ rejected him.

Crowley looked down at his hands and wondered where the flaw was, where the part of himself lay that marked him out as unworthy of his Father’s love. If he listened to the angel, the Fall had changed him, had made him…evil. He didn’t feel evil, but the angel was the one with a direct line to Heaven, and that was where God was.

Maybe he _was_ evil. Maybe God had planned for the Fall to happen all along, maybe Crowley had always been marked out as flawed, as something to discard at the appropriate time. He wondered again why he was the only angel—or, _had_ been the only angel—with an animal form. Maybe God had planned all along for Crowley to enter the Garden and tempt Adam and Eve to Fall. Maybe he had been damned when God made him.

Crowley stared down at his hands and wished that it were true. Because if God had planned for him to lead the humans into temptation, then it wasn’t _his_ fault. Cain wasn’t screaming in the Abyss because of _Crowley_ ; he was screaming because of _God_. Because maybe God was crueler than Crowley had ever naïvely imagined He could be, and had _wanted_ pain to be visited upon Cain and all of the Fallen.

Crowley slowly lowered his hands and stared at the muddy ground in front of himself, feeling worse than ever. Then he turned back in the direction he’d come from, a numb feeling spreading across his chest. He’d go back to the Abyss, he decided wretchedly, because he wasn’t welcome anywhere else, and return to listening to Cain screaming, and maybe one day it wouldn’t bother him anymore.

He’d noticed the effect the screams were having on the other Fallen angels, the way they hardened their hearts. Asmodeus and a few of the others had even begun to look like they properly _enjoyed_ tormenting Cain. Maybe that was what God, in His divine cruelty, had intended all along. And who was he to doubt the will of his Father?

Crowley dropped his head and started back in the direction of the door to the Abyss.

Over the next few centuries, Crowley sat in the cold, dark emptiness, listening to the screams and waiting to lose the ache in his chest. More humans died, and more souls came to the Abyss, which had since styled itself Hell and arranged its ranks after those of Heaven, the only other world the Fallen angels had ever known. The humans all screamed and begged and whimpered and called out to a God who never came.

And Crowley waited and waited for the horrible place to feel like home. He made a few small efforts to make friends with some of the least horrible demons, but everyone was either afraid or inciting fear, and he watched even the most moderate of them grow cold and vicious, hardening their hearts just to survive. The screams appeared to be having a direct impact on them, so Crowley went as far as to spend some time sitting very close to several tormented souls, in the hopes of accelerating the process that would lead to him not caring anymore. But listening to their agony, so raw and immediate, only made his heart ache more. He regretted every decision that had ever brought him to this place, regretted it until his chest stung, but he never felt his heart harden, though he wished dearly that it would.

When Crowley could no longer stand the increasing number of screams, he applied for one of the few positions available as a field agent on Earth. Hell had decided to take a more proactive approach to damning souls. Somewhere deep down, Crowley thought that many of the demons were still trying to find and cross the line at which God would take no more, and to those ends they had grown bolder, moving their operations onto Earth to try to force their Father’s hand. But Crowley had given up the delusion that God cared at all long ago. He just wanted to stop hurting.

Crowley polished off his credentials as the tempter of mankind and was awarded the job. The pristine beauty of the Earth was absolutely breathtaking after so much time in the Abyss, and he spent the entire first day just sitting on a mountainside and struggling to accept how exquisitely innocent the silence was. He wanted to stay there forever, but he knew he had to do his job or Hell would recall him and send someone else.

The humans took one look at his serpentine eyes and fled, and Crowley slowly came to realise that they expected the same cruelty from him as from any other demon. As the angel had told him so long ago, he was evil, and everyone seemed to know it except him. He didn’t want to damn the humans—didn’t _want_ to condemn anyone to that torturous place he himself had only so recently escaped from—but he didn’t know if he could stand going back. Besides, if he didn’t do the job, someone else would. It might as well be him.

So Crowley tempted and coerced and damned, and when he encountered the angel from Eden again, he knew his actions only cemented the angel’s opinion of him.

Deep down, he quite liked humanity, with their boundless optimism and surprising kindness, but it wasn’t a sentiment he tried to foster. Instead, he focussed on the worst of them, surrounding himself with liars and cheats and others worthy of his company. Through it all, though, he did his best to damn only those humans who would have been damned anyway by their own actions. Whenever he felt his resolve thawing, he reminded himself of the cruelty of his Father, that this should all be part of His divine plan.

It was easy to hate Aziraphale, to hate the way the angel lorded it over him, and easy to hate the way so many humans fled from him upon seeing his serpentine eyes. He returned the favour, treating everyone he encountered with the same ruthless dislike. It made it easier to stomach what he was condemning them to. He wondered how he could have ever thought he and Aziraphale could have been friends, when it was so clear now that they were as different as night and day.

But as much as he mistreated humanity, he couldn’t stop finding them brilliant and clever and capable of great kindness, and as much as he sneered at Aziraphale and laid traps to discorporate him, he hated the way they were always at cross-purposes, always exchanging blows. He hated how much he hated it all, and wished dearly that maybe, one day, it wouldn’t be like this anymore.

That, one day, he could forget the screams.

He never did.

 

 

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

When Aziraphale began crossing the courtyard by the Temple of Amun, he spotted Crowley nearly right away.

The demon was sitting on the edge of the elaborate fountain in the square’s centre, something flat and pale lying in his lap. He sat up a little straighter when he saw Aziraphale, and then hopped off the fountain and made a beeline for him.

Since Aziraphale crossed this courtyard every morning, he knew it was no coincidence that Crowley was here. He remembered their encounter the previous day and prepared for what was destined to be an equally uncomfortable meeting.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called as he jogged closer, evidently not noticing that Aziraphale had already slowed his pace. “Truce!”

Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh as Crowley skidded to a halt in front of him, hands clutching what looked like a folded square of cloth. “What do you want, Crowley?”

“I wanted to apologise,” Crowley said, adopting an appropriately contrite expression. That was one of the problems with the demon, Aziraphale had always thought; it was so difficult to tell if the sentiment he was expressing was genuine or not.

“Did you now?” Aziraphale grumbled, but allowed himself to be waylaid.

“I’m sorry I broke into your house,” Crowley said, “and I’m sorry I made fun of your job.”

Aziraphale frowned at him.

“And,” Crowley continued hurriedly, “I came to give you something.” He fumbled with the cloth in his hands and, supporting it with one hand, pulled back the last fold with the other to reveal a beautiful beaded necklace.

It was one of the collared sorts, with three rows of delicate gold wire mesh holding hundreds of tiny, multicoloured beads. It was similar in structure to the one gracing Crowley’s own chest, but whereas the demon’s gleamed with gold and red beads, this one had every colour of the rainbow. And, as Aziraphale leaned closer automatically, he saw that, in addition to their wonderful colours, each bead was carved into the shape of a tiny fruit, the largest pieces no taller than the width of his narrowest finger. There were tiny carved dates, grapes with purple stone tendrils, and miniature palm leaves. It must have cost a fortune, if Crowley had indeed paid for it.

Aziraphale realised he’d been staring at it for a while, a little slack-jawed, and looked up at Crowley in surprise, thinking that this must be some kind of ruse. Crowley only gave him a hopeful smile, and this time Aziraphale would have bet his house that the expression was genuine.

“Oh, Crowley, I—I couldn’t possibly—” Aziraphale began, feeling that there was probably some sort of sinful activity going on here that he needed to avoid. Vanity, perhaps, or pride.

“It’ll look good on you,” Crowley said encouragingly. “And besides, that necklace you’re wearing now is a disgrace. You look like you robbed a tomb from the Fifteenth Dynasty.”

Aziraphale blinked and looked down at himself self-consciously. He automatically fingered the single string of reddish-brown carnelian beads around his neck. He _had_ owned it for quite a while, he supposed.

“People see us together when I’m thwarting you,” Crowley continued, “and I cannot bear to have your poor fashion sense reflecting on me any longer. It’s making me look behind the times. So, for both our sakes, please, stop looking like a fool.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, baffled at this mix of compliments and insults. He could easily imagine Crowley buying him something newer to protect his own ego, but he had no good reason for why Crowley would pick out something so beautiful and valuable. In the end, all he said was, “There’s nothing wrong with my fashion sense.”

Crowley actually snorted at that. “Those bracelets you’re wearing are _literally_ five hundred years old, you know that, right?”

Aziraphale looked down at his bracelets defensively. They each consisted of strands of carnelian and turquoise beads patterned into simple stripes of red and teal. Only when he looked over at Crowley’s own bracelets, which were solid gold and inlaid with stones, did he realise that the two styles _were_ rather different. “There’s nothing wrong with antiques,” Aziraphale protested. “They don’t make things the way they used to, anyway.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and pushed the necklace into Aziraphale’s hands, along with the square of linen it had come wrapped in. “Whatever. But please, do try to keep up with the times. I have better things to do with my time than keep your wardrobe stocked.”

Aziraphale, still a bit baffled as to this entire thing, only blinked after Crowley as the demon turned and sauntered off, crossing the square in long, easy strides. Then he looked back down at the priceless necklace in his hands. The sunlight played off the individual beads, each one glimmering enticingly. It really was beautiful.

He spent another long moment trying to decide if wearing it would be sinful. As far as he knew, there was no rule against an angel accepting a gift, though there was probably something wrong about accepting one from a demon.

 _Eh_ , Aziraphale decided after a long moment as he carefully held the necklace up to the light to better admire it, _what Heaven doesn’t know won’t hurt it._


	5. Watchful Eyes

**The Valley of the Kings**

February 24th, 1908

 

Crowley had no idea what Aziraphale was playing at.

First, the angel had suggested they walk down from the ridge in the valley to where Crowley remembered the tomb of the pharaoh Horemheb laid, and then he had announced that he was going to try to find the entrance.

Crowley, puzzled but doing his best to look like he knew exactly what he was doing, had nodded cagily and agreed to help him. Aziraphale kept insisting it was for “old time’s sake,” but Crowley was convinced it had something to do with whatever mission Heaven had given Aziraphale.

He remembered rather hazily what had occurred here over three thousand years ago, but he couldn’t think of any reason for Heaven to be digging up this particular piece of the past—and quite literally, as well.

He and Aziraphale had been digging for some time now, using repeated small miracles to shift whole wheelbarrow-loads of sand and rock at a time. The problem was, they knew they were close to the tomb entrance, but neither of them could seem to pinpoint the tomb’s doorway within more than a fifteen-metre radius.

Crowley was burning to ask Aziraphale exactly why he cared about finding the entrance to the tomb so much, but he knew the angel wouldn’t give him a straight answer. And besides, Aziraphale thought he was here on Hell business, and that was an illusion Crowley wanted to maintain as long as possible.

The other question was why Aziraphale was doing this largely in secret. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to do work himself—even if it was miracled work—when there was a perfectly capable small army of workmen just a few minutes’ walk away that he could easily enlist. And, from the occasional glances Aziraphale cast in the direction of Davis’s camp, Crowley suspected that the angel wasn’t planning on letting any of the humans in on it at all.

The sun was nearing the horizon, the valley beginning to cool as long shadows stretched across the sand, when they found the door.

It was Aziraphale who miracled away that particular stretch of sand and rock, revealing beneath it the straight edge of a cut piece of stone.

Crowley glanced over at the angel as he abruptly stopped waving sand around and moved forward, dropping to his knees and beginning to paw at the ground.

“I think I found it,” Aziraphale said, still scrabbling in the sand.

Intrigued, Crowley abandoned the similar hole he'd been magically digging a few metres away and trotted over to join Aziraphale.

The angel brushed a layer of sand off what looked encouragingly like a door lintel, resting one hand on it as he looked up at Crowley.

“That's the top?” Crowley asked in surprise. “It's a lot deeper than I thought it would be.”

“Three thousand years’ worth of sediment deposits, I suppose,” Aziraphale speculated as he climbed back to his feet. With careful but decisive strokes of his hand, he started systematically banishing the sand from in front of the door, sweeping it up and to the sides.

Crowley stepped back and glanced askance at the angel, but he offered no further explanation for wanting to dig the tomb out in the first place.

Deciding he’d have to wait to find out, Crowley moved to Aziraphale's side and joined him in waving away swaths of sand, soil, and crumbled rock, gouging out the earth as easily as if it were made of butter.

The sun slunk behind the crested hills of the valley, and as the night started to cool Crowley shifted away a particularly large clump of hardened earth from right next to the door. As he pulled it away, there came a sudden noise a bit like someone sucking through a straw. It was quite loud and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and both Crowley and Aziraphale jumped. A heartbeat later, they were hit by a burst of warm air accompanied by possibly the worst smell Crowley had ever had the misfortune to let anywhere near his nose.

“Ugh, what _is_ that?” Crowley asked, throwing the back of his hand to his mouth and forcibly reminding himself that he didn't need to breathe and that this would be a great opportunity to exercise that privilege.

Aziraphale didn't respond right away, but once the worst of the smell had cleared he pointed at the door to the tomb. They’d only half-uncovered it, but behind where Crowley had miraculously removed the clump of earth they could see a small, jagged hole in the tomb’s stone door.

“I—I think it was the air,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little unnerved himself. “I heard them talking about it on the boat on the way here. All the air that was trapped inside the tomb has been there for thousands of years, and it's understandably gone a little stale. I—we’ve allowed new air to get in. That smell, I think, was the old air coming out.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say that it smelled like something had died in there, thought for a moment, and shut his mouth again. “Great.”

Aziraphale made a face that said he agreed, and then he raised a hand and continued miracling clumps of earth away.

Crowley joined him, and about an hour later, the sun now vanished completely below the horizon and the work growing somewhat more difficult due to the darkness—or so Crowley assumed was the case for Aziraphale; since he could see in the dark, he didn’t mind—they reached the bottom of the doorway. They spent a few minutes more sweeping away the last clumps of earth, until there was an easily passable slope leading down into the hillside, terminating in the doorway.

For a moment, the two of them just stared down at it, and then, in unspoken agreement, they strode closer, loose rocks skidding under their shoes as they moved down the slope.

The tomb entrance was a little shorter than might be comfortable, but even Crowley, who was the taller of the two of them presently, wouldn’t have to duck his head. Aziraphale reached out and ran a hand over one of the edges of the stone doorframe, where hieroglyphics had been carved in a vertical string millennia ago.

“‘O the living who may pass by this tomb,’” Crowley translated, the language he had all but forgotten coming back to him with ease, “‘in going north or in going south…’” There was a large gouge in the next hieroglyph, but he could piece together what it said; these things were terribly formulaic. “‘In that you wish to follow the king of the dualities, the perfect god Horemheb, living enduringly, in all his journeys’—well, it’s the right tomb.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, slowly lowering his hand. “I remember it.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, again itching with curiosity to ask him why he was here. Aziraphale appeared lost in thought, or perhaps memory, staring at the sealed stone door.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Do you—ah—do you want to go in?”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath, visibly considering the matter himself. Crowley, certain Aziraphale’s Heavenly mission had something to do with the tomb, waited to see if Aziraphale would deem him trustworthy.

“We should wait until the air has a chance to circulate some more,” the angel said after a long moment. “It’s not safe yet.”

Crowley frowned at Aziraphale, who, even with Crowley’s demonically enhanced night vision, was draped in shadow. “It might smell bad, but we don’t have to breathe, you know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, almost evasively. “But still. Like you said, it smells.”

This seemed like an incredibly flimsy excuse to Crowley, particularly since the two of them had already dug up the tomb in secret and partially in the middle of the night, and he considered pressing the matter further.

“We should come back tomorrow morning,” Aziraphale said, turning and leading the way back up the slope and out of the shadows cast by the piles of earth. “It should have cleared out a bit more by then.”

Crowley was certain that Aziraphale was just trying to get rid of him now, which was odd considering he’d invited Crowley along to help dig out the tomb with him in the first place. It wasn’t like the angel couldn’t have done it himself, though it would have taken longer. But saying they should come back in the morning? He was basically spelling out that he was going to come back by himself in a couple of hours, after Crowley had fallen asleep.

They stopped at the top of the slope and Aziraphale turned to him. In the faint starlight, Crowley could see the angel’s expression much better, and he appeared almost anxious. “Tomorrow morning?” he prompted.

Crowley considered. “…okay,” he said at length. “But promise me you won’t sneak back here before then without me.”

This, Crowley thought, was a particularly clever approach, because he knew Aziraphale would think twice before lying to him. Or, at least, he hoped Aziraphale would think twice. Or at least feel bad afterwards. And if he avoided the question entirely, then he would give himself away.

He expected the angel to waffle, but instead Aziraphale only nodded, expression giving nothing away. “Okay.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, feeling that he was missing something. If Aziraphale _had_ just lied to him, he was either a better liar than Crowley gave him credit for or Heaven was applying some serious pressure.

He extended his hand, just to be sure. “Deal?”

Aziraphale seemed surprised at the gesture but shook Crowley’s hand nonetheless. “Deal. As long as _you_ don’t sneak back here without me, either.”

“Done,” Crowley said, suddenly wondering if there was something in the tomb he ought to want.

But they had shaken on it, and Crowley didn’t have a full enough picture of what on earth Aziraphale was here for to be comfortable reneging his own deals just yet.

So they took a few more steps away from the tomb, and when they were at a comfortable distance Aziraphale turned and waved his hand in the direction of the tomb. The air shimmered, and a heartbeat later the overturned piles of earth and slope leading down to the tomb door vanished, leaving only the image of the smooth, unbroken hillside.

When he had tweaked the mirage to his satisfaction, Aziraphale nodded and the two of them turned and walked back in the direction of the camp.

 

 

Beyond where Aziraphale and Crowley had started walking back to the camp, tucked away up behind a small crest of rocks, a shadowy figure pressed himself closer to the ground, fingers tight around the pair of brass binoculars digging a line into the bridge of his nose.

Dumah had been on his way to spy on the activities of the industrious humans camped near the centre of the valley when he had spotted two new figures making their way in his general direction. He had hidden and watched them carefully, wondering if they were human scouts, but when they had drawn nearer he had realised in surprise that they weren’t human at all—either of them.

He recognised one of them, the Serpent of Eden—everyone knew him. The other, an angel, he wasn’t familiar with, but what had shocked him the most was that the Serpent and the angel had known _each other_. And quite well, apparently.

They had collaborated. They had shaken hands. They had walked off together.

Abezi-Thibod was going to love hearing about this.

 

 

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

The palace was silent.

Aziraphale really was doing an excellent job of muffling his footsteps, though Crowley reckoned it had more to do with miracles than lightness of foot.

To be fair, Crowley was also muffling his footsteps with miracles, but he liked to think he was doing it less.

He had been tracking Aziraphale since the angel had left his house late that evening, wrapping an extra layer of cloth around his shoulders to disguise the glimmer of the necklace Crowley had given him. The fact that he had chosen to wear it despite it being less than ideal for sneaking about with was oddly touching.

The angel had taken extra pains to keep his passage through the city from being noted, turning aside the humans’ eyes when he couldn’t avoid them entirely. Since he’d entered the palace proper, however, he’d taken even more precautions to avoid being seen at all.

Now, he was flitting between the shadows cast by the towering, tapering granite pillars lining the courtyard near the centre of the palace, vanishing between the painted lotus leaves that wrapped around their limestone bases.

Crowley followed at as close of a distance as he dared, intrigued.

Aziraphale reached the end of the courtyard and slowed to a stop, sandals soundless on the smooth floor. The oversized painted figure of Isis on the wall behind the angel seemed to watch him disapprovingly as he slipped around the corner and out of sight.

Glancing around for guards himself, Crowley quickened his pace, hugging the wall and slowing to a halt by the corner Aziraphale had just rounded. He risked a small peek around the corner and saw the angel standing behind a rather large polychromatic glass vase not far away, using the branches of the pomegranate tree growing from it for cover.

They were in the heart of the palace now, and when Crowley traced Aziraphale’s gaze he was surprised to see that he was looking towards the anteroom to the pharaoh’s bedchamber.

_Is he going to…assassinate the pharaoh?_

The thought seemed preposterous at first—it was clearly an order Hell would sooner give than Heaven—but no better alternative presented itself to Crowley.

_No wonder he wanted me to keep out of it_ , he thought, bewildered. He knew a fair bit about the new pharaoh; before he’d taken the name Ramesses, he’d been known as Paramesse and had served as Horemheb’s vizier. He was ancient now, though; surely there wasn’t much he could do in what was destined to be a short reign? And it wasn’t like he’d done anything particularly terrible when he’d held the second-highest office in the land, either.

He was still staring at Aziraphale, wondering if thwarting the angel meant he would have to prevent a murder, and what Below would think of that, when Aziraphale flicked his hand towards the pharaoh’s bedchamber. The two guards standing outside the door suffered identical sneezing fits, and in their moment of distraction Aziraphale shifted his weight and slipped around the vase the other way.

The angel vanished through an unguarded doorway on the other side of the room, opposite the door to the pharaoh’s chambers. Crowley felt a bizarre surge of relief as he realised that his evaluation of the situation had been wrong after all.

Glancing at the two guards, who were still sneezing quite violently, Crowley dashed across the space after Aziraphale, draping himself in a small spell to fool their eyes just in case.

The doorway opened up into a long pillared hall swamped in shadow, and he spotted Aziraphale already at the far end. Another pair of guards stood outside a door there, but this time Aziraphale simply raised his hand and the two of them sat down, laid their spears quietly on the ground, and nodded their heads forward. As best as Crowley could tell from this distance, it looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Aziraphale spent a moment bent over one of them, a hand on his shoulder, and then he straightened up. He glanced around the darkened hall—Crowley ducked behind one of the slender pillars just in time—and when the demon hazarded another glance he saw that Aziraphale had pulled open the door and was vanishing inside.

_That’s the treasury_ , Crowley remembered with something like relief. _He’s not here to kill someone, he’s here to_ steal _something._

The thought was oddly amusing to him, and that singular moment Crowley spent contemplating the idea of Aziraphale masquerading as a master thief might well have saved his life, or at least his current corporation, because that was when a shadow detached itself from one of the columns on the other side of the hall.

Crowley froze as he watched the figure walk unconcernedly towards the door Aziraphale had just vanished through. A strong sense of unease settled over Crowley, and he felt the hairs on his forearms stand up.

The figure reached the door and paused with one hand on the latch. He turned and looked back for a moment, and Crowley, himself standing in the darkest part of his pillar’s shadow, got a good look at his face.

His first, instinctive impression had been correct; it was Pathtumon, Aziraphale’s angelic partner. A few years ago, Heaven had got the idea into its head that its angelic operatives would be better served with partners serving in the same area, and Pathtumon had been Aziraphale’s.

From what limited interaction Crowley had had with the angel, who incidentally outranked both himself and Aziraphale, he had gathered that Pathtumon was as much of an obnoxious prick as the holiest of Heaven’s host. Though Crowley would never admit to being afraid of him, he deeply disliked it when Pathtumon tried to discorporate him. One of the best advantages of getting on Aziraphale’s good side was that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder every five minutes.

Luckily, Aziraphale seemed to have been able to convince Pathtumon that he was handling Crowley, or at least that Crowley posed no serious threat, because he hadn’t had a knife thrown at his head in nearly nine months.

He also strongly suspected that Aziraphale thought Pathtumon was a prick as well, which made Crowley far happier than it should have.

Crowley waited until the door had swung shut behind Pathtumon before allowing himself to breathe again. He’d been planning on following Aziraphale further, but though he didn’t doubt he could open the door and sneak in without the clueless Aziraphale noticing, he wasn’t so sure about Pathtumon. From what he’d managed to glean from Aziraphale, his new partner carried a lot of weight in Heaven, and had earned it through shrewd ruthlessness.

Crowley stared at the door to the treasury and the two sleeping guards slumped next to it, wondering what business Pathtumon could possibly have that involved shadowing his own partner. The thought crossed his mind that Pathtumon might have laid a trap for Aziraphale, and that Aziraphale might be in danger.

_Don’t be absurd_ , Crowley thought to himself, perhaps a bit shakily. _Pathtumon’s an angel, and so is Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s here on Heaven’s business, so there can’t be any problem._

Though he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Crowley knew there was nothing he could do about it now, so he surveyed the otherwise empty hall and made his way to one of the pillars on the far side. From here, he had the best vantage point of the treasury door, the entryway Crowley and Aziraphale had come through, and another darkened opening on the far side of the hall.

_Maybe Heaven’s disappointed with Aziraphale’s performance_ , a voice in Crowley’s head suggested as he hunkered down to wait, the stone of the pillar cold against his shoulder. _Maybe someone_ did _see me at his house, and thought that was suspicious._

He knew he shouldn’t care much one way or another, but if Heaven recalled Aziraphale he’d be left with no one but Pathtumon for company, and that did not sound pleasant at all.

Crowley’s thoughts kept running after each other in increasingly worried circles until, some ten minutes later, the door creaked open again. Crowley tensed, but the figure that slipped out of the door quickly resolved itself into Aziraphale. There was something in his hand, but he looked unharmed and untroubled. Aziraphale glanced around the hall, closed the door behind him, and bent down towards the guards. He touched each one gently on the shoulder and then quickly strode away in the direction he’d come.

Crowley stayed perfectly still, eyes tracking Aziraphale’s movements as he hurried out of the hall. Near the door to the treasury, one of the guards started to stir. The door opened yet again, and this time Pathtumon exited. The guards started to rouse further, heads lifting wearily from their chests, and Pathtumon hastily speed-walked away, in the direction of the exit at the far end of the hall. He didn’t seem to be hiding his presence anymore, and Crowley reminded himself that Pathtumon had assumed a high position in the palace, working close to the pharaoh.

Pathtumon vanished though the doorway and Crowley crept after him as quickly and quietly as he could.

Pathtumon took a series of winding turns, Crowley quietly following after him at a safe distance, until he stopped outside of a door that Crowley assumed must be his chambers, or perhaps his office. He fiddled with something hanging from the sash wrapped around his kilt at the waist, pushing aside a black steatite cylinder seal and finally producing a long key. He worked it into the wooden lock, pushed the door open, and strode inside. The door closed after him.

Crowley glanced up and down the corridor, but no one seemed to be about, and it was the middle of the night anyway. He crept right up to Pathtumon’s door, heart hammering in his throat, and very carefully put his ear to the door. A small miracle enhanced his hearing further.

He heard Pathtumon’s footsteps, retreating and then approaching slightly. Stopping. The sound of a drawer opening, the jingle of metal on metal, a faint thump. A few more footsteps, silence. The sound of a fire being stoked.

There was a silence so long Crowley began to think that Pathtumon wasn’t going to give anything away after all. He was considering admitting defeat and going home when the angel spoke, his voice enunciating the Enochian passage with clarity and precision.

“ _Hoahlahiem, enich o el-halla elousha ma nity sha shelk. Amine._ ”

Crowley didn’t have to see the faint light cast across the corridor floor from the gap under the door to know that Pathtumon had opened a connection to Heaven. He remained utterly still, prepared to bolt at any moment.

“My Lord Metatron,” Pathtumon said.

There was a faint crackling and a female voice replied, “They’re out, actually. This is Seket. What can I help you with?”

“Oh,” Pathtumon said. “I was hoping to speak to—”

“They told me about you,” Seket said. “Do not worry. They have given me their full confidence. How goes your mission?”

“Ah, surprisingly well, actually,” Pathtumon said, and Crowley could hear the faint puzzlement in his voice. “Aziraphale performed very well.”

“He retrieved the amulet?”

“He did. He resorted to thievery—not the most admirable approach, in my mind—but he completed the task swiftly and efficiently.”

“That is good news,” said the voice of Seket.

“Yes,” Pathtumon said, sounding disappointed. “His loyalties seem to be true, even if he is distressingly ineffective when it comes to capturing or killing the demon.”

Crowley, ear still pressed against the door to Pathtumon’s office, froze.

“Some demons are harder to bring to justice than others,” Seket said fairly. “And his strengths may lie in other areas.”

“Of course,” Pathtumon said quickly. “Forgive my impertinence. It is just…it is the _same_ demon, and I know he has been in this city for at _least_ a century. Surely it cannot be _that_ hard…?”

“We tested Aziraphale,” Seket said, a bit sharply, “as you suggested. His loyalties are to Heaven. Your worries were unfounded. He will do well for Heaven during the coming events.”

_Coming events?_ The words echoed ominously in Crowley’s head, and a fresh wave of dread settled over him.

“And remember,” Seket continued, “you are new to fieldwork yourself. Do not be so quick to judge.”

“Of course, of course,” Pathtumon backtracked. “My apologies. You are right.”

“Good.” Seket sounded satisfied. “Now, is there anything else?”

“One last thing,” Pathtumon said quickly. “I was able to switch out the amulets beforehand, as agreed, so Aziraphale does not know he has the copy. What shall I do with the real one?”

“Send it to Heaven,” Seket’s voice instructed. “It is most valuable to our cause. You know what it can do to demons. We have not yet heard from Aziraphale; when he contacts us, we will explain that he has been tested, and that he has passed…”

Seket continued speaking, but Crowley had become distracted by the sound of two pairs of footsteps approaching from another direction. He yanked his head away from the door as two guards on patrol strolled around the corner.

They spotted Crowley immediately, and one of them opened his mouth, the other moving his spear into a defensive position.

Crowley, with only a split second to think and the fear of being discovered by Pathtumon making his heart pound in his chest, shifted into the most hideous shape he could think of.

Curled horns crashed into the ceiling and maggots spilled out of his jaws, spewing onto the floor and bouncing off of thrashing tentacles like gruesome rubber raindrops. The blood-curdling sight of what Crowley had become had the desired effect of convincing the guards to not shout something along the lines of ‘hey you, stop listening at that door!’ Instead, they screamed, one dropped his spear, and both of them turned and ran.

The voices in Pathtumon’s office abruptly cut off as Crowley shifted back into human form with such speed he staggered from the spatial whiplash. He stumbled across the hall, feet skidding on a few maggots he’d missed, and wrenched open the nearest door, obliterating the lock in the process. In the same motion, he threw himself inside and dragged the door shut with a miracled-silent slam.

He staggered a few feet into the darkened room before he could catch himself, but a quick glance around the space relayed that he was alone. Relieved, he crept soundlessly back to the door and listened fearfully as he heard the sound of a door elsewhere in the hall click open.

He heard indistinct voices, the sound of another door opening and closing, and a muffled noise of disgust.

“By Ra, what’s happening out here? Pathtumon, do you know the meaning of this?”

There came the sound of more footsteps, and then Pathtumon’s voice said, thick with suggestion, “Go back to sleep; I’ll take care of it.”

The sound of Pathtumon’s footsteps receded, along with his voice occasionally telling people to go back to sleep.

Crowley knew he ought to run. The room he was in had a window—he could tell from the square of moonlight lying half-across the hand he had pressed against the door—and it would be easy to fly away, back into the city and to the safety of his house. The problem was, the amulet Aziraphale had evidently stolen a copy of sounded valuable and dangerous—dangerous to _demons_. Both his thwarting orders and sense of self-preservation told him that it was in his best interests to make sure Heaven never got their hands on it.

And, as a separate matter, Aziraphale had a right to know that he was effectively under Heavenly review, but he knew that if he tried to tell Aziraphale without proof, the angel would never believe him.

Crowley swore quietly under his breath, took a deep breath, and opened the door a crack. He poked his head out next, and, though there were a couple important-looking officials milling about in their nightclothes, looking very confused and tired, Pathtumon was nowhere to be seen.

Crowley slipped through the doorway, dashed across the hall, and, releasing the lock with a small miracle, let himself into Pathtumon’s office as quietly as possible.

It was a good thing he did, too, because as the door swung open he saw that Pathtumon had left the connection to Heaven open. A faint white, almost blue light was illuminating the motes of dust on one side of the room, above where a misshapen circle had been drizzled on the floor using what looked like lamp oil. A small fire burned softly in a nearby hearth, and a handsome desk sat near an uncovered window.

Crowley didn’t know if anyone was actively listening to Pathtumon’s broadcast, but he crept across the room as quietly as he could anyway, letting out a mental string of colourful swears as he inched around to the far side of the desk.

Luckily, he didn’t have to look far, because Pathtumon had left one of the drawers open. And there, sitting right on the top of a few fresh sheets of papyrus, was a golden amulet with a disc about the size of Crowley’s palm.

Crowley reached into the drawer and very carefully picked the amulet up, wincing as the braided gold chain tinkled softly in his hand. He flicked his gaze up nervously to the shaft of white light and the door he now saw that he’d left slightly ajar, and carefully coiled the amulet and its chain into his hand.

It was then that he heard the distant sound of Pathtumon’s voice, raised authoritatively as he announced that nothing was the matter, and everyone should go back to sleep. He sounded like he was getting closer.

Crowley cast one look at the glowing light and, not seeing a lot of other options, turned and threw himself out of the window.

 

 

“My apologies about the distraction,” Pathtumon told the shaft of heavenly light as he felt Seket’s attention return to him. “There was a most peculiar disturbance. Now, let me fetch you the amulet.”

He strode over to his desk and reached towards the drawer he’d left open. He froze as his eyes fell on the drawer and the sheets of papyrus resting at the bottom. He swept his gaze across the top of the desk, in case he had moved the amulet and forgotten.

He closed the drawer, opened the other ones, closed them, and opened the first one again. He pulled it all the way out and felt around inside it, tearing up the papyrus sheets as he did so.

“We are ready,” said Seket’s voice.

“I—I just—one moment,” Pathtumon said, voice surprisingly steady. It was gone—it was _gone_ — _how could it be gone?_

He remembered the maggots in the corridor.

Pathtumon spun so he was facing the open window. His gaze was immediately arrested by something sitting on the wide windowsill that had most certainly not been there before.

“A–actually,” Pathtumon said, reaching down to pick up the small black feather, “I think I’m going to have to call you back.”


	6. Trouble in Paradise

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

Crowley found Aziraphale at a tavern.

He shouldered his way through the crowd of people enjoying their late-night beers—a surprisingly large number considering the hour, but he supposed this was one of the nicer taverns—until he spotted Aziraphale, standing moodily in a corner with a mostly-empty mug of beer in one hand.

Crowley wove his way closer, raising a hand to try to catch Aziraphale’s attention as the crowd started in on a bawdy drinking song about how many of their livestock they would sell for a good woman.

“Aziraphale!” he called as he neared, and Aziraphale finally looked over and saw him.

The angel frowned at Crowley as he squeezed his way between two broad-shouldered men and came to a stop next to him. “Go away, Crowley. I’m busy.”

“We need to talk.”

“I told you, Crowley, I’m busy.” Aziraphale tried to gather himself closer, but all it did was emphasise the fact that he was holding a mug of beer.

Normally Crowley would have pointed out the incongruity of Aziraphale’s words and actions, but he had bigger fish to fry. “Like tell Heaven you’ve got their amulet for them? Yeah, I know.”

He watched surprise write itself across Aziraphale’s face, quickly followed by suspicion and then anger. “How do you know about that?”

“I told you, we need to talk.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “You followed me, didn’t you? I told you to _stay out of it_ , Crowley, and I meant that.” He glared at Crowley and his look of irritation deepened. "And how do you keep finding me?”

“It’s really not that hard to check every tavern between the palace and your house.”

Aziraphale scowled and turned away, looking like he intended to quit the conversation entirely, and Crowley quickly pulled the amulet from where he’d looped it around the decorative, belt-like sash of his kilt.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked down to it as he turned away, and he froze, eyes resting on the amulet’s disc for a moment before jumping up to Crowley’s face. Anger hardened on Aziraphale’s features, and he took a step closer to Crowley.

Crowley, feeling that this conversation had really best be carried out in private, turned and slipped back into the crowd, heading for the tavern door. He heard Aziraphale following him, and was relieved for that much, at least.

He glanced at the darkened sky as he stepped outside, half-convinced Pathtumon would appear at any moment to smite him. He didn’t think Pathtumon had seen him as he’d made his escape, but he couldn’t be sure.

He had taken several steps along the front of the tavern when he heard Aziraphale stumble outside after him.

Crowley took a deep breath and pivoted, intending on explaining everything, but he never got the opportunity. A fist contacted hard with the left side of his face and he half-fell, half-staggered into the side of the tavern, head ringing. For a moment he thought that Pathtumon must have found him after all, but then his vision cleared enough for him to recognise that it was Aziraphale advancing on him.

_Oh_.

Aziraphale grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him upright just long enough for him to slug Crowley again.

This time Crowley’s head touched the side of the tavern as he was knocked against it, vision spinning and the taste of blood flooding his mouth. He raised his hands in surrender, the amulet still clutched in one of them.

“Give that back, you thief,” Aziraphale snarled, and a moment later Crowley felt the angel’s fingers trying to pry the amulet from his hand. Unfortunately, Crowley had wound the chain through his fingers, and Aziraphale’s sharp tugs did nothing more than cut off the circulation to several of his fingers.

“Azira—wait,” Crowley tried, voice slurring slightly as his mouth refused to work properly. He tried to bring the hand holding the amulet closer to his chest, but Aziraphale was still doing his best to wrench the disc of the amulet from his grasp. Crowley must have tried resisting a little too much, because Aziraphale yanked him forward by the shoulder, spun him around the corner of the tavern, and slammed him into the side wall of the narrow alley.

“Give it up, you—you— _demon_ ,” Aziraphale hissed, still trying to pry the amulet from Crowley’s numb fingers.

“I didn’t—steal it,” Crowley managed, and it took him a moment to realise that this was, in fact, a lie. Aziraphale, apparently trying to get a better grip on the amulet, shoved Crowley up against the wall again, until the back of his skull cracked against the stone wall.

“Check,” Crowley wheezed as his vision veered toward static, tightening his fingers reflexively around the disc of the amulet. “It’s not yours.”

Crowley’s vision cleared slightly and he saw Aziraphale’s face only a few inches from his own. The angel looked livid and frustrated, but his anger was measured, and he settled for scowling at Crowley as he momentarily released his grip on the amulet in Crowley’s hand. Instead, he fished around in the folds of his linen kilt, his other forearm pressed just above Crowley’s clavicles, effectively pinning him to the wall and threatening to choke him at the same time.

He watched the faintest flicker of surprise cross Aziraphale’s face as his searching hand found the amulet he had stolen from the treasury, hanging from the sash wrapped around his waist right where he had left it.

“See?” Crowley asked weakly, giving Aziraphale a smile with teeth he suspected might have been a little bloodstained.

Aziraphale scowled at him, but the fury in his eyes abated slightly. He shifted the arm pressed against Crowley’s throat down a little, so the demon could wheeze in more air. “Explain yourself, serpent.”

“There’re two of them,” Crowley supplied at once, swallowing a mouthful of blood so he could speak clearer, his head throbbing sickeningly. “Heaven was testing you.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

“It was Pathtumon’s idea,” Crowley continued, voice hoarse. “I overheard him talking about it with someone in Heaven. He doubted your loyalty and wanted to see if you would complete the task. He gave you a fake copy of the amulet. Pathtumon had the real one in his office.” Crowley swallowed, tasting blood again. “I stole it from him just now when I realised what he was up to.”

Aziraphale frowned but didn’t show any signs of wanting to release him. “Give me the amulet,” he said levelly.

Crowley wheezed in a breath. “Promise me you won’t give it to Heaven,” he croaked. He didn’t know exactly what powers the amulet possessed, but if it was indeed a weapon of some sort he didn’t want it ending up in Heaven’s hands. As he’d been forcefully reminded recently, nearly all of Heaven wanted him dead.

He would have said he was looking at the exception now, except at this moment Aziraphale didn’t look like he’d mind discorporating Crowley either.

“Give it to me or I’ll take it,” Aziraphale growled.

Crowley didn’t have to consider the ringing in his ears or the way his fingers had gone completely numb from lack of circulation to know that he could hardly stop Aziraphale.

“Please.” It wasn’t a word he used often.

Aziraphale’s expression didn’t soften. “I’ve got a job to do,” he growled, and started prying the amulet out of Crowley’s grasp with his free hand, his other arm still pinning Crowley to the wall.

Crowley made an effort to free himself, trying to push forward far enough so he could slip under Aziraphale’s arm, but either the angel was stronger than he remembered or Crowley was weaker, because he barely shifted Aziraphale’s arm at all.

Aziraphale finally succeeded in wresting the amulet from Crowley’s grip, the braided golden cord slipping free from his numb fingers at last. Aziraphale released his hold on Crowley and took a long step back, so he was out of the demon’s reach. Crowley’s weight sank back onto his own feet, but his trembling legs refused to support him and he slumped back against the wall, only barely keeping himself upright at all.

“Don’t give it to Heaven,” Crowley said, voice still wheezing slightly as he raised a shaking hand to his throat. “Please, Aziraphale. I’m…I’m asking you not to.”

Aziraphale gave him a long, cool look, expression unreadable. “I don’t need help from a demon.”

“Destroy it,” Crowley tried, beginning to seriously doubt that telling Aziraphale the truth had been such a good idea after all. “Whatever it is, keep it off the board. Tell Heaven you lost it. Let things stay the way they are.”

Aziraphale had already turned away, but he paused, gaze dropping to his shoes. He let out a long breath, shoulders sagging, and Crowley had a brief moment of hope that Aziraphale was coming around to his way of thinking.

But the angel only sighed again, fingering the amulet he had pried from Crowley’s grip. “Look,” he said at last, glancing over at Crowley, “I’m sorry.” And then he turned and continued walking away.

“Is this what you want?” Crowley called after him as strongly as he could, breath catching in his throat. “What you _really_ want?”

Aziraphale strode out of the alley without looking back.

Crowley waited until he was gone and then let himself double over, wheezing in pain. He massaged his throat and clavicles with one hand while he wiped the blood from his chin with the back of the other.

He took as deep of a breath as he could and set about fixing the damage to his corporation using magical means, clearing his windpipe and re-anchoring several teeth that had come unmoored. A similar miracle attended to the strong red marks on his hand, returning some much-needed circulation to his fingers.

Once he felt well enough that he thought the rest could wait until he was in the privacy of his own home, Crowley turned and started down the alley in the opposite direction Aziraphale had gone, feet still a little unsteady.

Crowley was trying to talk himself out of feeling disheartened about this whole thing when he rounded a corner and walked directly into the one person he wanted to see least in the world just then.

Pathtumon reacted far quicker than Crowley, and Crowley found himself pinned against a wall for the second time in fifteen minutes.

“There you are, you thief,” Pathtumon snarled. “Give me back the amulet.”

Crowley, who was beginning to seriously regret having ever stolen the stupid amulet in the first place, considered his options. He opened his mouth, which was still throbbing from its recent acquaintanceship with Aziraphale’s fist. “Nah.”

Pathtumon’s face clouded, unsightly red patches breaking out across his bronzed skin. “Don’t play games with me, demon, or you will regret it.”

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” Crowley muttered.

Pathtumon yanked Crowley forward, evidently intending on slamming him back against the wall the same way Aziraphale had earlier, but Pathtumon was much slower than Aziraphale had been, and Crowley was a lot less willing to let himself be knocked around. He lurched to the side, grabbing Pathtumon’s arm as he did so, and tried to duck around his attacker.

It worked reasonably well, but before Crowley had got far enough away to make a good run for it, Pathtumon’s hand closed on his wrist and yanked him back.

Pathtumon brought his other fist back for a punch, but Crowley saw the blow coming and ducked easily, still trying to wrench his wrist from Pathtumon’s grip.

“ _Stop that_ ,” Pathtumon ordered as Crowley kept trying to twist away from him, as though he thought Crowley would listen to him.

Crowley tried to kick Pathtumon’s legs out from under him but missed, and Pathtumon immediately stole his idea and kicked Crowley right back.

Pathtumon’s strikes were the luckier, and Crowley felt his right shin explode in pain and collapse under him. Pathtumon pressed his advantage as Crowley veered towards the ground, the angel getting in another short kick in the process.

Pathtumon’s hand was still clamped around his wrist, and Crowley scrambled backwards as best he could with the angel’s fingernails digging into his skin, until the palm of his other hand hit stone. He’d backed himself right up against the wall again. _Damn._

“Give me the amulet,” Pathtumon demanded again as he leaned in closer, half-crouching in front of Crowley as the demon flattened himself against the wall.

Crowley’s mind churned through as many ways to escape as possible, and he gave Pathtumon a weak smile. “You’re too late, I’m afraid.”

The thundercloud that descended on Pathtumon’s face, making his cheeks even blotchier, would have been amusing had Crowley not suspected his present corporation wasn’t long for this world.

“Where’d you hide it?” Pathtumon demanded even as his eyes swept along the folds of Crowley’s pleated linen kilt, which was about the only place Crowley could have hidden the amulet on his person.

“Not hidden,” Crowley said, mentally taking stock of his injured shin while he kept Pathtumon talking. It was throbbing quite badly, but he didn’t think it was broken. He started quietly healing it. “I gave it away.”

A vein in Pathtumon’s forehead throbbed. “Where? To who?”

“To _whom_ ,” Crowley corrected, and earned himself another fist to the face. This one split his lip, and his head started throbbing all over again as the back of his skull slammed into the stone wall.

“Stop playing games with me, you disgusting creature,” Pathtumon hissed, grabbing Crowley’s necklace and using it to draw his head closer, the back of the chain cutting into the nape of his neck. Pathtumon’s eyes were a pleasant light brown colour, but they were darkened with anger and the hint of something powerful and holy. There was a faint shift in the air, and Crowley shied away instinctively as he felt the dust motes around him vaporise under the influence of some unseen power. Pathtumon was clearly preparing to smite him, and though smiting usually ended in nothing more permanent than discorporation, it was incredibly painful and really not something Crowley had time for right now.

Pathtumon leaned closer, breath hot on Crowley’s face. “I won’t ask you again, demon. Where. Is. The. Amulet?”

Crowley, struggling to hide the fresh round of fear that was making his heart jump into his throat, gave Pathtumon a weak, bloodstained smile. “I gave it to Hell.”

The fury on Pathtumon’s face grew, if possible, even stronger, and he leaned back, holding his free hand out in Crowley’s direction, palm facing him. The charge in the air increased, making Crowley’s skin prickle in pain. Pathtumon was going to smite him all right, but he was also relying on that being his final card; he’d finally loosened the grip his other hand had on Crowley’s wrist, apparently without noticing.

Crowley yanked his hand away from Pathtumon’s, and, curling his fingers into a fist, slugged the angel across the cheek with as much force as he could muster.

Pathtumon was so absorbed with gathering the heavenly power necessary to blast Crowley from the face of the Earth that he saw Crowley’s attack coming too late. He caught the full force of the blow and fell backwards, the charged feeling in the air abruptly evaporating as he lost control of it.

Crowley scrambled to his feet and, not bothering to see if Pathtumon had recovered yet, sprinted for the end of the alleyway.

He heard Pathtumon snarling something after him as he skidded around the corner and took off down another street, forcing his legs to carry him as quickly as they could, heart hammering in his chest.

He ducked down another side street and only allowed himself to slow when he had run for several minutes and was certain he wasn’t being followed. Then, shin throbbing again, he staggered to a halt outside the Temple of Amun and gulped in huge breaths.

Crowley raised a hand to his mouth and found that he was bleeding again, this time from his split lip.

He was not having a good night.

 

 

**The Valley of the Kings, Western End**

February 24th, 1908

 

Their names were Abezi-Thibod, Uvall, Rahab, and Mastemot, but they preferred Osiris, Am-heh, Ba-En-Kekon, and Anubis.

Dumah also preferred Anubis, and the contestation between himself and Mastemot had resulted in Abezi-Thibod, their undisputed leader, christening the two low-ranking demons Jannes and Jambres, respectively, after the two Egyptian priests who had opposed Moses. It wasn’t as good as being the judge of the underworld, but it would have to do for now.

Dumah skidded into their camp, which was little more than a few modest tents that had been rather poorly erected with miracles.

“Abezi—Osiris!” he called breathlessly. His binoculars thumped against his chest as he skidded to a halt near a large, dark shadow that opened glowing red eyes.

“Wha’ are you yapping about?” growled the shadow, who used to be called Uvall.

“Where’s Osiris?” Dumah asked. “I was on duty, and I—I saw—”

Uvall unfolded himself, easily doubling his height. “Unless those humans opened an’ther tomb in tha middle of tha night, you’d better not’ve disturbed me.”

Dumah waved away the concerns of the larger demon while simultaneously shrinking away from him. Dumah, while enthusiastic, was not a very powerful demon by any stretch of the imagination, and what Uvall lacked in tact or linguistic skill he more than made up for in brute strength.

Dumah opened his mouth to explain what he had seen, but another figure, this one slender and moving with all the litheness of a panther, emerged from the shadows of the next tent over. While Dumah wasn’t overly frightened of Uvall, who was more bark than bite, he did harbour a healthy fear of Rahab. She’d earned a truly fearsome reputation in Hell for her cruelty, and the fact that she had chosen the name Ba-En-Kekon—known to the Egyptians as the ‘soul of darkness’—for herself did nothing to comfort Dumah.

Only half-illuminated in the moonlight now, she looked particularly dangerous, the light playing across her cheekbones and gleaming off the beaded bracelets on her wrists. “Wait for Osiris,” she directed, and despite the lightness in her voice Dumah wouldn’t have dared to contradict her. He nodded numbly.

He didn’t have to wait long; their fearless leader emerged a moment later from under the flap of the largest of their tents, which was also the only one that was enclosed. Abezi-Thibod was nearly an entire head shorter than Ba-En-Kekon, and positively stick-thin when compared to Uvall’s hulking form, but he walked with an eerie calm and seemed to hold the promise of eternity in his eyes. Uvall and Ba-En-Kekon both dipped their heads to him as he neared. The rumours said that Abezi-Thibod was the son of Beelzebub, and Dumah had always put a lot of stock in rumours.

“Jannes,” Abezi-Thibod greeted, folding his hands in front of himself and addressing his words to Dumah. Abezi-Thibod had embraced the Egyptian culture more than any of them, and the moonlight gleamed off his golden collar and earrings and illuminated the green eyeshadow smeared inexpertly around his eyes.

“My lord Osiris,” Dumah said, bowing deeply. “I come with news.”

“You may speak it.”

Dumah straightened up, excitement overtaking him at the importance of the message he was about to deliver. “When I was spying on the humans, I saw the Serpent.”

Abezi-Thibod frowned at him, and the flatness of his gaze made him appear even more inhuman than he already was.

“Of Eden,” Dumah clarified. “The demon, I don’t remember his name.”

“Has he come to join us?” Abezi-Thibod asked, and though his voice was calm it looked like his interest had been piqued.

“Er, I don’t think so,” Dumah said, remembering the Serpent’s choice of companion.

“If Hell has sent him,” Ba-En-Kekon said, drawing a long bronze dagger from her belt and running a fingertip over its gently serrated edge, “can I torture him in a way worthy of the old gods?”

Abezi-Thibod held up a hand. “Patience, Ba-En-Kekon. If Hell has sent him, we may be able to sway him to our cause. Do not forget that we are not in favour there at present. A good word from him may aid us.”

“Wha’ was tha snake doing?” Uvall growled.

Dumah glanced at the large demon. “He was digging up a tomb. And…he wasn’t alone.”

“A tomb?” Uvall echoed, sounding pleased. “I could’a do with more gold.”

“Wait,” Abezi-Thibod said. “Who was he with? Did you recognise them?”

“I don’t know his name,” Dumah said. He looked around at his companions, each of them more powerful than he could imagine ever being, all of them brought together by their mutual interest in a long-dead civilisation whose heyday they had all quite missed out on at the time. “But he was an angel.”


	7. Doublespeak

[on [tumblr](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/174079328363/egyptian-amulet-for-my-good-omens-fic-the-curse)]

 

**Thebes**

1292 BC

 

Aziraphale was stewing.

He turned one of the amulets over and over in his hand, thinking about what Crowley had said.

From the moment Heaven had given him this mission, he had had a very bad feeling. They had instructed him to steal an amulet from the pharaoh, and when he’d asked why they didn’t have Pathtumon do it, seeing as he was already working very close to the pharaoh, they had been unable to provide him with a satisfactory answer. When he’d asked how they’d found out about the amulet’s existence in the first place, and why now, they had merely said that they had received ‘information’ and told him to stop asking questions.

And then there was what the amulet could allegedly do: trap demons.

Looking down at the amulet in his hands now, Aziraphale thought that this was entirely plausible. The golden disc of the amulet was about the size of his palm and divided into three concentric rings. The centre and outermost rings held elaborate engravings of knots, and the middle ring contained a long string of hieroglyphics. At the top, where the braided gold chain was fed through a loop, a white crystal in the shape of a scarab sat perched, flanked on either side by a golden winged serpent.

The hieroglyphic text was somewhat obscure in meaning, but it was certainly calling on all the right powers for a spell of this calibre. The scarab-shaped crystal was what interested Aziraphale the most, though. It looked like there might have been tiny rows of text etched into the back of it, and Aziraphale would have bet all the cows in Egypt that that hidden text was where the true power of the amulet lay.

When he compared the amulet he’d taken from the palace’s treasury to the one he had wrested from Crowley, he had to admit that the one he’d stolen from the palace was a copy. It was a very good copy, though, and Aziraphale doubted he would have been able to tell the difference without having them side by side. But the scarab crystal in the fake one didn’t have any of the hazy text etched into its reverse, and it was also missing a second, very thin ring of text wrapped around the edge of the amulet’s disc that Aziraphale had noticed by complete accident.

All in all, it looked very much like Crowley had been telling the truth. Either that, or he’d somehow figured out what Aziraphale’s mission was, made the duplicate amulet himself, and swapped it out for the real one before Aziraphale had a chance to steal it. While Aziraphale didn’t believe Crowley incapable of such a scheme, it did seem unnecessarily complicated.

And if Crowley _had_ been telling the truth, then that meant that Pathtumon had gone behind his back to try to trick Aziraphale into implicating himself in some way. He and Pathtumon had never seen eye to eye, but he hadn’t thought his angelic partner would double-cross him.

Aziraphale took a slow sip of beer and set the terracotta mug back on the table, casting a discreet glance around the tavern to make sure no one was paying him any heed. Given that the amulet in his hand was made of solid gold, it would make a pretty prize for any human thief.

This wasn’t the same tavern Crowley had found him in earlier that evening, but as Aziraphale had marched homeward he’d found himself still in need of a drink and had stopped at another of his favourite haunts. He would be the first to admit that he had become far too attached to beer in the last few centuries, but he supposed it was too late to give it up now.

Aziraphale looked down into the depths of his beer glumly, even its lovely intoxicating effect not enough to distract his churning stomach from the matter at hand.

Because, as if Pathtumon’s double crossing wasn’t bad enough, there was an even bigger problem: he agreed with Crowley.

From the moment Heaven had informed him that the amulet would be used to trap demons and then easily kill them as the magical binding rendered them defenceless, Aziraphale had had a sinking feeling that this wouldn’t end well. Because, as much as Aziraphale liked to think he was a loyal soldier working for the side of good, he knew that Heaven would use such a weapon indiscriminately.

And, should the amulet fall into Heaven’s hands, there was a very real possibility that its first victim would be Crowley. It wasn’t even difficult for Aziraphale to imagine Pathtumon ordering him to kill Crowley with it—as it was, the other angel was continuously harassing him about how long it was taking him to knock Crowley off the board. Aziraphale was actually quite unsettled by how bloodthirsty Pathtumon seemed to be, underneath his well-bred exterior.

Strictly speaking, Aziraphale wasn’t against using the amulet to fight demons _in_ _general_ , but he had been fighting _Crowley_ for a long time now and…well…when it came right down to it, it just didn’t seem very _fair_. He and Crowley had reached a sort of wary half-truce some time ago, and it had included the establishment of a set of rules: no really painful discorporations if they could be avoided, no using holy water or hellfire, no poisoning alcoholic drinks, and, ever since a particularly heated argument, no destroying Aziraphale’s books. Sometimes they even honoured timeouts if, say, one of them didn’t watch where he was running and accidentally fell into a river. Not that that was something Aziraphale made a habit of, but it was just too ridiculous of a thing to get discorporated because of, and usually Crowley was too busy laughing at him to mind much anyway.

But though they were on opposite sides, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be _civilised_ about it. Their truce was, to a large degree, equitable and agreeable. They both wound up discorporated enough times to keep their superiors happy, and the rules relieved them of the stress of spending every waking moment looking over their shoulders. Besides, the demon was insufferably friendly.

It had taken a long time for them to reach their truce and learn to honour it, and Aziraphale knew that using this amulet or giving it to Heaven so they could use it would be breaking the rules. Of course, all he had to do was break them once, and Crowley wouldn’t be able to retaliate in kind, but…

Somewhere, deep down, Aziraphale admitted to himself that he wouldn’t be heartbroken if Crowley continued thwarting him. It was nice having someone to talk to, if nothing else. Pathtumon never had any interesting things to say, if he deigned to talk to him at all.

Or, as an alternate worst-case scenario, Heaven might be planning on creating working duplicates of the amulet, an action that would tip the cosmic scales considerably in Heaven’s favour. That large of an advantage might entice them to bring about Armageddon any year now, and that would mean that Aziraphale would have to go back to Heaven. No more beer, no more papyrus scrolls, no more lazy afternoons by the river… He wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

Still feeling awful but with no good solution to his problem, Aziraphale drained the rest of his beer, stuffed the amulet out of sight with its brother, and left the tavern. He made the short walk to his house in silence, brooding over what he should say to Heaven. He’d have to contact them soon, to let them know he’d succeeded in retrieving the amulet.

By the time he reached his front door, he’d tentatively decided to contact Heaven and hand over the fake as they expected. He would feign ignorance of the Heavenly test, and hopefully they wouldn’t have any reason to suspect that he knew the whereabouts of the real amulet.

Aziraphale’s hand was on the door to his house when he realised that it was unlatched.

“Bloody demon,” he muttered under his breath as he pushed the door open. He strode into his entrance hall and caught sight of a slender figure leaning against the doorjamb near his office. Aziraphale opened his mouth to tell Crowley off for breaking into his house again, and so soon after he had apologised for it in the first place, and just barely swallowed the words in time as he realised that the intruder was not, in fact, Crowley.

“Aziraphale, thank goodness I reached you in time,” Pathtumon said, moving forwards and spreading his hands in a gesture of goodwill. As he came forward into the light, Aziraphale saw a purplish-red bruise around Pathtumon’s left cheekbone, spilling into the soft skin around his eye. It looked like he’d healed it partway and hadn’t got around to finishing the job yet.

“What are you doing in my house? And who gave you that?” Aziraphale gestured to Pathtumon’s face.

Pathtumon raised a hand to his cheek, as though to emphasise the fact that he was hurt. “I’ll explain in a moment. You haven’t contacted Heaven yet, right?” Pathtumon looked quite worried about it.

“Er…I was just about to,” Aziraphale lied. He’d been hoping to put it off for a few hours longer.

“Excellent,” Pathtumon said, putting his hand on Aziraphale’s elbow. He seemed to notice that Aziraphale found it awkward, though, because he quickly pulled his hand away. “Listen, I need your help, and I need to apologise.”

Aziraphale frowned at his angelic partner as Pathtumon ploughed on, “The last mission Heaven gave you, to steal the amulet—it was a test. I suggested it. I thought—well—to be frank, I thought your loyalties might have been divided.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot upwards. Pathtumon seemed to interpret his expression to mean that Aziraphale was offended that he could have thought such a thing.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. But we’re both working for Heaven, right? I only needed to know that your heart was true. And it is, I’m sorry I doubted you. But, just in case it wasn’t, I took the precaution of swapping out the _real_ amulet in the treasury with a duplicate, a useless copy, and that’s what you stole.”

Aziraphale stared at Pathtumon and nodded numbly. He’d already started regretting his earlier encounter with Crowley, but hearing the confirmation now from Pathtumon’s own lips only served to settle his guilt in further.

“But _then_ ,” Pathtumon carried on, “I was just about to deliver the real amulet to Heaven when I realised that the demon had stolen it! We need to get it back as soon as possible. You know what it’s capable of.”

Aziraphale nodded again, slower this time. “How do you know, ah, that the demon has it?”

A conflicted expression settled onto Pathtumon’s face. “He says he gave it to Hell already, but I don’t think he had time. I think he still has it.”

“You…talked to Crowley?”

“If you call this talking,” Pathtumon said woefully, gesturing again at the colourful bruise on his face.

Aziraphale frowned. “You’re saying Crowley gave you that?”

Pathtumon nodded again, almost eagerly. “He attacked me. He wouldn’t give me the amulet.”

 _Ah,_ Aziraphale thought, mentally adjusting Pathtumon’s story to _I attacked Crowley, and he defended himself._

“He was vicious,” Pathtumon added. “But I am certain he still has the amulet, and if we can get to him quickly enough we might be able to switch the amulets out on _him_ by giving him the copy that you stole. And…maybe don’t talk to Heaven between now and then. No need to bother them with the minutiae of field agents’ work, right?”

Aziraphale took that in. Pathtumon was giving him an open, hopeful smile, but this was the first time Pathtumon had ever treated him with anything approaching respect or even friendliness, and he didn’t doubt that it was entirely because Pathtumon needed his help.

“Pathtumon,” Aziraphale said after a moment, voice measured. “I’ll help you, of course, but we need to be careful how we handle Crowley.”

“The demon is treacherous,” Pathtumon agreed, looking relieved at Aziraphale’s words.

“I mean, if he’s hidden the amulet somewhere, we’re not going to be able to beat it out of him.” Personally, Aziraphale didn’t think this was true at all—as best as he could tell, Crowley’s loyalty to Hell didn’t stretch much farther than his fear of diabolical punishment, and he didn’t know of any stronger loyalty Crowley had, except maybe to his own skin—but there was nothing to be lost by overselling Crowley’s credentials. “We’ll have to trick him. Luckily, he and I are on what you might call…speaking terms.” Aziraphale’s mind raced, trying to quickly formulate a plan. “I can arrange a meeting.”

“A trap! Excellent!” Pathtumon cried, rubbing his palms together.

“I—yes,” Aziraphale agreed, already trying to think of how to un-make it a trap.

“Let’s go now,” Pathtumon said, starting towards the door.

“Hey, hey—are you serious?” Aziraphale said, taking a half-step towards the door as though to intercept the other angel. He had been hoping for some time to get his thoughts together and formulate a proper plan. And it hadn’t been very long since he’d roughed Crowley up; he would have liked to give the demon more time to lick his wounds before impressing his company upon him. He didn’t imagine Crowley would take very kindly to seeing him just then.

“No reason to wait,” Pathtumon said, and when Aziraphale couldn’t think of any suitable excuse, he forced himself to shrug.

“Excellent,” Pathtumon said, opening the door and gesturing for Aziraphale to go first. “Lead the way.”

 

 

Crowley was sitting in his garden, staring moodily at the elegant patterns of shadow cast across the ground by his row of tamarisk saplings. He was still wrapped up in his thoughts when his servant, a bright young man and amateur thief named Neferhor whom Crowley had rescued from the authorities, came over and informed him that he had a visitor.

Given that it was the middle of the night, Crowley had only one guess as to the identity of said visitor. It seemed a little early for Aziraphale to come apologising, though; maybe he’d decided he hadn’t given Crowley a large enough piece of his mind earlier.

Grimacing a little, Crowley told Neferhor to take the rest of the night off—what he’d even been doing up at this hour was anyone’s guess—and made his way to his feet. His right leg was still smarting from the kick Pathtumon had given his shin, and he limped a little as he walked across his garden and into the entrance hall, where he knew his guest would be waiting.

To no one’s surprise, it was Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted him, the word oddly stiff and formal. The way he was standing was strange as well, on the far side of the room with his hands folded in front of him.

“What do you want?” Crowley grumbled, because he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to start mending this particular bridge. He limped over to where a small table sat pushed up against the wall and sank into the chair next to it, suppressing a wince as he bent his leg.

When he looked back up at Aziraphale, he saw the angel surveying him, eyes roving from his leg to his mouth, where he imagined his split lip was still rather prominent. Aziraphale’s expression had darkened, and, as he watched, something like anger came into the angel’s eyes.

“Have you come to apologise?” Crowley prompted sourly when Aziraphale wasn’t forthcoming. “I don’t have all night, you know.”

Aziraphale seemed to shake himself, the anger shifting further back in his gaze. “Don’t be absurd,” he said coldly. “I don’t apologise to people like you and you know that full well.”

Crowley’s gaze, which had wandered to the nearby terracotta pot holding his most promising sycamore sapling, snapped back to Aziraphale, any faint traces of relief at the angel’s presence evaporating. He reminded himself forcefully that it had been foolish to think that Aziraphale might have come to apologise.

“You keep interfering in Heavenly business, and it needs to stop,” Aziraphale declared, voice hard. “You may think you have all the powers of evil behind you, but know that one day you will make a mistake, and that is the day I will smite you from the face of this Earth.”

Crowley felt his eyes begin to burn and he looked away, struggling to distance himself from the angel’s words. He knew he ought to be angry, ought to snap at Aziraphale and insult him back, but he was cold and tired and ached, and he had thought he and Aziraphale were past this, this…pettiness.

“You—you—damned fiend,” Aziraphale growled, advancing on him. “You dastardly creature, you rejection from our Father’s grace— _look at me when I’m talking to you, Serpent_.”

Crowley didn’t want to watch the anger dancing across Aziraphale’s features any more than he wanted to listen to his cutting words, but he forced himself to look around anyway, feeling very much like he didn’t deserve this.

But when he reluctantly met Aziraphale’s gaze, he was surprised to see that the angel looked calm, almost…encouraging. Or…apologetic?

“You abomination,” Aziraphale growled, but the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes. “ _Listen to me._ ” And then, slowly, deliberately, he winked at Crowley.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“The legions of Heaven are great and powerful,” Aziraphale stated, flicking his eyes meaningfully in the direction of the nearby open window without turning his head. “And they will smite you where you stand.”

“Oh?” Crowley said, relief flooding through him as he prepared to play along. “You—you feathered bastards don’t stand a chance against the equally great legions of Hell. You shall all roast in the deepest pits of the ninth circle.”

At Crowley’s words, a look of unspeakable relief washed over Aziraphale’s features. “The reign of Horemheb was tainted because of you,” he spat even as his eyes sparkled. He took a breath, and his expression shifted to one heavy with meaning. “But the sun will rise on a new dynasty, and the future will be built on the bones of that pharaoh whom you so supported.”

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale, who only stared back at him as though trying to impart some unutterable knowledge.

“On the _bones_ ,” Aziraphale repeated, “of the late Horemheb, _great things_ will happen. _Heaven_ will have their way. The _sun will rise_ on a new dynasty.”

“The sun will rise indeed,” Crowley growled, winking at Aziraphale to indicate that his message had been received, “on the armies of the damned as we take back what is rightfully ours, and we shall devour the Earth with fire.”

“Danger for demons lies where angels tread,” Aziraphale declared, and reached back to unclasp his necklace, the beautiful multi-coloured one Crowley had given him only a few days before. Aziraphale almost dropped it as he pulled it away from his neck, his hands fumbling with it for a moment as he caught it near his kilt. When he straightened up again, he fixed his eyes on Crowley as the demon gave him a slight, puzzled smile.

“And angels,” Aziraphale continued, “always have plans.” And with that, Aziraphale cast the necklace onto the surface of the table and stalked away.

“Death to Heaven!” Crowley called after him for added effect. After a few seconds, he heard the door to his house snap closed. He sat there for a long moment, trying to commit everything Aziraphale had just said to memory. He was pretty sure he’d got ‘meet at Horemheb’s tomb at sunrise’ and some associated message about danger, but beyond that he couldn’t tell what had been doublespeak and what had been window dressing.

Speaking of windows…

Crowley waited a long moment more and then crept over to the nearby window and peered outside. There was no sign of Aziraphale, Pathtumon, or anyone else, but he surveyed the street carefully anyway, in case someone might move and give themselves away. When no movement was forthcoming, Crowley pulled his head back, fastened the unadorned curtain so it covered the window, and turned back to the necklace Aziraphale had cast onto the table. He limped back to the chair, sat down, and picked up the necklace. As soon as he did so, he felt something shift under the delicate rows of beads, and allowed himself a smile as he drew forth an amulet from under the tangles.

 

 

“That was a strange way to set up a meeting,” Pathtumon commented as Aziraphale joined him outside Crowley’s house. Aziraphale motioned for them to start walking, and they did, quickly putting distance between themselves and Crowley. “There were a lot of…insults.”

“It’s what he deserves,” Aziraphale said with a haughty sniff. “And it’s the only thing he responds to. He would never agree to meet if I just _asked_. You have to think like a demon.”

“…but he _didn’t_ agree to meet,” Pathtumon said in puzzlement. “I don’t—”

“Sunrise at the tomb of Horemheb,” Aziraphale said. “He got the message. But I didn’t _invite_ him, see; that would be too polite. I _manipulated_ him. Such a strange clue is certain to have caught his attention; he’ll be there, I’m certain of it.”

“If you’re sure,” Pathtumon said, sounding very dubious.

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale said breezily, the real amulet bouncing heavily against his side with every step, “I’m sure we’ll get the amulet back from him.”


	8. Soul of Darkness

**The Valley of the Kings**

February 24th, 1908

 

The cool breeze ruffled Crowley’s hair as he walked back in the direction of Horemheb’s tomb, keeping along the craggy hills edging the valley. He strongly suspected that Aziraphale would try to sneak back to the tomb before morning, regardless of what he had promised, and was determined to catch the angel in the act.

Crowley was approaching an outcropping that looked like it had a good vantage point of the area where Aziraphale had cast the mirage spell when he, keeping his gaze on the hidden entrance to the tomb, literally tripped over someone stretched out on their stomach on the sand.

“What the—?” Crowley caught himself before falling and spun as the shape he’d tripped over abruptly started into action.

“’m awake, Dumah!” a reedy voice said as the figure clumsily climbed to her feet. Only when she’d straightened up, a pair of battered binoculars hanging from a cord around her neck, did she actually take Crowley in. “Who are you?”

“Who am _I?”_ Crowley repeated, staring incredulously at the unassuming figure before him. “Who the hell are _you?”_

That was when he realised that _who the hell_ was exactly the right question, because she was a demon.

“Oh shit,” the demon said, and turned and bolted.

“Hey! Oi!” Crowley tried chasing after the demon, but she was very quick and clearly more accustomed to scrambling over the desert rocks than Crowley was. She quickly outstripped him, and he allowed his pace to slow after only a few moments of pursuit. He drew in deep, worried breaths as he came to a halt, watching the figure of the demon hastening along the edge of the valley, towards the western end. A half-forgotten memory surfaced slowly in Crowley’s mind of a conversation Davis and Ayrton had had in the car on the way there, something about another group of archaeologists setting up camp in the valley, in the _western_ part of the valley.

The demon had mentioned another name, ‘Dumah,’ which meant that she wasn’t alone. She had seemed very low-ranking to Crowley—a good rule of thumb was that the faster a demon could run, the more they needed to—but such a demon rarely ended up on Earth without the protection of someone more powerful.

“Shit,” Crowley swore to himself, dread creeping over him. For a moment he stood there, torn between trying to catch the demon before she could inform her betters and going back to warn Aziraphale.

And then he turned and ran as quickly as his feet would carry him in the direction of Davis’s camp, as though he had all the hounds of Hell on his heels.

 

 

“Just going for a walk,” Aziraphale told Davis’s photographer—he’d since remembered his name was Harry Burton—where he was currently sitting on watch outside the camp. “Bit of fresh air is all, while it’s not so warm out.”

“Understandable,” Burton replied, nodding amiably. “It’s a beautiful night. Where are you headed?”

“Oh, just a bit further into the valley,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of Horemheb’s tomb. “Nowhere in particular.”

“Watch where you put your feet,” Burton advised. “You can take a lantern if you like.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be perfectly all right,” Aziraphale assured him, already a few steps away from the camp.

“Good night, sir!” Burton called after him.

“Same to you,” Aziraphale said, and started into the valley. He checked the time by glancing at the position of the three-quarter moon, which had crossed from near one of the valley’s peaks to a position higher in the sky. He had feigned going to sleep once he and Crowley had returned from unearthing Horemheb’s tomb, but when he had gone to check surreptitiously on Crowley not even an hour later, he’d found the demon conspicuously absent from his tent.

He’d sincerely hoped the demon would respect the deal they had struck—they’d even shaken on it!—but he supposed he really should have seen it coming. He still had no idea why Crowley was in Egypt in the first place, and showing so much of his own hand to the demon had certainly been a gamble.

He was about halfway to the entrance to the tomb, Davis’s camp just shifting out of view behind a large outcropping, when he heard someone shouting his name.

“Aziraphale! Azira—up here!”

Aziraphale stopped and looked up, scanning the nearby ridge. A lithe yet incredibly uncoordinated figure was scrambling down towards him as fast as they possibly could, and it didn’t take him long to recognise that it was Crowley.

As he neared, Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask the demon what he thought he was doing out here, but when Crowley started waving his arms urgently he stayed his course.

“A–Azira—” Crowley began breathlessly as he skidded to a stop next to Aziraphale and grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to get out of here right now, there’re demons—” Crowley started dragging Aziraphale back in the direction of Davis’s camp, looking very out of breath.

“Hey—slow down, Crowley, _what?_ ”

“Demons,” Crowley repeated breathlessly, still trying to drag Aziraphale away by the arm, golden eyes flicking nervously between Aziraphale’s face and the slopes of the valley behind him. “I just ran into one, and who knows how many more there are, but we gotta go—”

Something wasn’t fitting right in Aziraphale’s head. “But you—you’re—what about your Hell business?” he asked, perplexed. Surely Crowley had some superior leverage he could use against them?

“They have nothing to do with my _Hell business_ , trust me,” Crowley assured him, still trying to drag him away. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on, Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale protested, the wheels in his head spinning. Even if Crowley _wasn’t_ here for the same reason Aziraphale was, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that these other demons _were_. And even if they weren’t, he couldn’t leave Horemheb’s tomb exposed like it was, with only a scant magical mirage to protect it. “We need to go back to the tomb.”

Crowley was still trying to pull him away. “What? No, we really don’t, it’s fine, leave it—”

“There’s—listen, Crowley, there’s—” Aziraphale hesitated. “A weapon, there’s a divine weapon in the tomb, that’s why I’m here. I can’t leave it there, and I can’t let them get it.”

Crowley finally stopped trying to drag Aziraphale away and switched to staring at him incredulously in the moonlight, serpentine pupils nearly round in the low light. “You’re serious?”

Aziraphale nodded wretchedly.

Crowley took a deep breath, visibly running something through his head. “Can this weapon be used against demons?”

Again, Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley hesitated, and Aziraphale could see the conflict written across his face. It was then that Aziraphale realised that he was being selfish to think that Crowley might want to go with him, or that Crowley even _should_. This wasn’t his battle; it never had been.

“Look, you can go,” Aziraphale said all in a rush, “but I have to go back.”

Crowley’s eyes jumped to meet Aziraphale’s, and the insulted looked on his face meant more to Aziraphale than Crowley would ever know.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley said sharply, and started off in the direction of the tomb.

Aziraphale, feeling simultaneously buoyed and terrified, broke into a jog after him, until both of them were sprinting across the valley floor in the direction of Horemheb’s tomb.

 

 

They hadn’t made it very far before they heard the distant roar of an engine and the sound of tires skidding across sand. For a bizarre moment Crowley thought it must be one of Davis’s beloved Crawfords, but the pair of round yellow headlights that appeared from the darkness were coming from the _west_ —Davis’s camp was behind them, to the east.

Crowley increased his pace, fixing his gaze on the spot of ordinary-looking sand where the hidden entrance to Horemheb’s tomb laid, but even as he did so he realised that Aziraphale was falling behind. Crowley ran as far as he dared and skidded to a halt about twenty metres from the tomb entrance, putting himself between Aziraphale and the automobile that was bearing down on them.

The car thundered closer, and for a heart-stopping moment he was certain it was going to run straight over him, but it swerved sharply at the last moment, skidding to a halt in a manoeuvre that made the appreciator of automotive mechanics in Crowley flinch.

The driver’s door threw itself open and a woman in high-waisted khaki pants and a short leather jacket stepped out of the car and down onto the sand. A wide smile split her face as she drew two long daggers from her belt, the moonlight glinting off their blades. Crowley immediately identified her as a demon, and one who was considerably more powerful than him too.

“Serpent,” she hissed, looking far too excited as she advanced on him, two other demons climbing out of the car behind her. “How fortunate to find you here.”

Crowley took a step back and cast a glance automatically over his shoulder at where Aziraphale was sprinting determinedly towards him, still nearly a dozen metres away.

He turned back to the female demon as she stalked closer. She expertly twirled the dagger in her left hand, eyes burning into his, and Crowley made the quick appraisal that this was not a fight he could win.

He took another step backwards, mind racing as he searched desperately for a delaying tactic. “Does Hell know about this?”

The woman’s face hardened slightly, but her pace didn’t slow. Crowley was still taking nervous steps backwards as she neared, but he wasn’t going nearly fast enough and he was almost within striking distance now.

“They will soon,” she growled, and lunged at him. Crowley just barely sidestepped in time, fumbling around in his pockets for something— _anything_ —he could use as a weapon.

He was still trying to find something more lethal than a handful of coins in three currencies when the woman launched herself at him again. She was much closer this time, and all the side-stepping in the world couldn’t stop her from tackling him head-on. Crowley’s back hit the sand hard and he felt all the air leave his lungs at once. The woman followed him to the ground and pressed her advantage immediately, shifting her weight onto him even as he tried to squirm away.

He tried to wriggle his way out from under her, but there was a dagger at his throat before he could blink. It was joined a heartbeat later by another at his stomach, just below his ribs, the tip of the blade digging so deep that he thought she might be drawing blood even through the material of his shirt. She was pinning him to the ground very effectively, one forearm on his chest and a knee on one of his thighs, keeping her entire weight on him.

“You have poor taste in company, Serpent,” the woman hissed at him, mouth only a few inches away from his cheek. Distantly, he heard Aziraphale shout something.

“They call me Ba-En-Kekon,” the woman breathed, pressing the edge of the dagger even tighter against Crowley’s throat. “It means—”

“Soul of darkness,” finished Crowley, who had read the _Book of the Dead_ a couple of times himself.

Ba-En-Kekon looked impressed by this. “You know the old ways,” she said. “It is a shame you are to be made an example of. A testimony to the greatness of the Egyptian way.” Her eyes grew a little misty as she said it, but the daggers didn’t waver against Crowley’s skin.

From relatively close by, he heard Aziraphale make a noise not unlike a war cry, followed by the thump of someone hitting the sand. Crowley wanted to turn his head to look, but he thought the motion would have made him cut himself on the blade pressed to his throat; instead, he tried feeling around with his hands for any decent-sized rocks.

“The Egyptians told of a lake of fire where the souls of the damned would burn,” Ba-En-Kekon breathed. “Hell has one too; a lovely coincidence, I thought. And then there’s that weighing of the heart business…I don’t know if they meant that _metaphorically_ , but I’m going to assume they meant it _literally_.” She smiled at him, the sort of smile one gives a particularly well-behaved lobster before scooping it out of the tank for dinner. “The two of you, Serpent, will be the first souls in my glorious new afterlife.”

“Hard pass,” Crowley ground out, and twisted with all of his might. He didn’t make it far before Ba-En-Kekon immobilised him again, but his left hand had earned a greater range of movement. He didn’t have a good angle to strike her directly, so instead he squirmed again, wriggling enough to upset her balance. And, in the moment she shifted her weight to compensate, Crowley scrunched his eyes shut, swung his arm up, and threw a handful of sand into her face.

Ba-En-Kekon gave a shriek of pain and Crowley felt the blades digging into his skin relax slightly. Crowley moved his free hand to his own face and hastily wiped the sand from atop his closed eyelids, struggling to squirm away again as he felt the dagger digging into his ribs vanish. Ba-En-Kekon realised what he was doing and made a blind jab at him with one hand, the other trying to paw the sand from her eyes.

Even blinded, her aim was excellent, and Crowley only barely avoided the dagger aimed at his head. As she drew her arm back for another strike, squinting at him through reddened eyes, Crowley surged upwards, grabbed onto her wrist, and tried to yank the dagger from her grip. Her fingers tightened around the hilt, but Crowley was desperate for a weapon and he wasn’t going to let this one get away.

He wrenched it from her grasp just as she swung at him with the other dagger, aiming for his stomach. He only barely lurched backwards in time, and he could hear the blade whistle as it cut through the air. Ba-En-Kekon was beginning to recover her eyesight now, and her expression was even more livid than before.

Crowley, who liked to think he knew what was good for him, scrambled to his feet and dashed away while he still could.

Not far away, he saw Aziraphale exchanging blows with—and very much losing to—a demon nearly a foot taller than him and built like a rock. As he watched, Aziraphale tried to dart forward to land a blow and instead received the open palm of the taller demon, who struck him across the cheek with such force that Aziraphale was sent reeling backwards. As he staggered to keep his footing, a scrawny, harmless-looking demon standing nearby cheered. It was obvious that the bigger demon was just playing with Aziraphale, who, for all his ferocity, was a bit useless without a sword.

As Aziraphale started to straighten up, wiping a line of blood from his chin, he looked up and met Crowley’s gaze. A look of mutual understanding passed between them.

At the same moment, a faint rumble filled the valley, joined a heartbeat later by a fresh pair of headlights crashing towards them across the uneven valley floor. The huge demon behind Aziraphale, who’d been preparing to slug the angel when he turned back around, paused to look over at the car as it too approached from the west.

_Reinforcements._

Not needing any further prompting, Crowley turned and sprinted towards the hidden entrance to Horemheb’s tomb.

“Osiris!” he heard Ba-En-Kekon cry behind him as Crowley waved an urgent hand at the place where he knew the mouth to the tomb lay. “We greet you!”

The mirage in front of the tomb wavered and vanished as Crowley reached it. He fixed his eyes on the tomb door sunken into the rock, still intact apart from the small damaged area. Crowley threw his hand forward and closed his fist, tightening his mind around the fabric of the stone door. As he dragged his hand backward, the tomb door tore itself free from its frame and flew towards him. It fractured in midair, sending large chunks flying past him and pelting him with smaller pieces.

Crowley ducked and glanced behind himself, but saw that Aziraphale, who was sprinting after him, had avoided the shrapnel as well. Beyond Aziraphale, the second car had stopped, and through the darkness Crowley could see some sort of T-shaped contraption sitting where the backseat should have been. Two indistinct figures were standing up in the front seat, one of them with an arm pointed straight at the entrance to Horemheb’s tomb. Between the car and Aziraphale, Ba-En-Kekon and the hulking demon were strolling after them, but from their casual paces he guessed they assumed they had Aziraphale and him trapped.

And, in a way, they did.

“Go, go!” Aziraphale shouted as he saw Crowley hesitating, waiting for his friend to catch up.

Crowley turned and started jogging slowly towards the yawning black rectangle of the tomb entrance. He could smell the stale, putrid air from here, and threw out his hand again, this time dragging out the stale air and allowing fresh air to rush in.

He slowed again, and as he started to glance over his shoulder a patch of rocks a metre away from him exploded, accompanied by the staccato sound of gunfire. The bursts were much more rapid than the type Crowley was accustomed to, and not of a variety he had ever been on the wrong end of.

_Shit_.

Crowley flinched away and abruptly doubled his pace, until he was scrambling and skidding down the rocky slope towards the tomb, acutely aware of the sound of Aziraphale hastening after him, still several metres behind.

He heard maniacal laughter he was fairly certain belonged to Ba-En-Kekon as he reached the tomb entrance and dove inside.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted after him, another burst of gunfire almost obscuring his words. “Whatever you do, don’t step on the—”

Crowley felt something give under his foot, and a heartbeat later there came the sound of stone slamming into stone from somewhere behind him, and he was plunged into absolute darkness.


	9. Partners

**The Great and Majestic Necropolis of the Millions of Years of the Pharaoh, Life, Strength, and Health in the West of Thebes**

**(The Valley of the Kings)**

1292 BC

 

Horemheb’s tomb was a hive of activity.

Artisans were hastening out of the tomb, carrying bowls of paints, reed brushes, and chisels. The steady _chip, chip_ of metal on stone could be distantly heard from the mouth of the tomb, where the tunnel stretched very deeply into the earth, angling downwards as it went. Aziraphale stood near the entrance, admiring the hieroglyphics carved into the doorframe and listening to the sounds of industry slowly cease.

Pathtumon had gone down into a tomb a few minutes before, instructing everyone he met to leave the valley for a few hours. For what they were about to do, they required privacy. Aziraphale had put a similar suggestion into the heads of the humans outside, instructing them to leave and turn away anyone else they encountered—all but two, that was.

Aziraphale looked up the hillside to where, if everything was going according to plan, one of those two people laid in wait. It was one of his student scribes, and persuading him to help had been easier than Aziraphale had anticipated; given Aziraphale’s presumed influence in the royal household, all he’d had to do was imply that a considerable promotion might be in store for any bright young mind willing to lend him a hand with a personal matter. Given how political the upper echelons of the scribes were, a task such as the one Aziraphale had given his student didn’t even seem vastly unusual.

Several distressed-looking artisans filed out of the tomb and past Aziraphale, one of them staring briefly at his reflection in the round mirror sitting on a stand next to the angel. These mirrors, Aziraphale had always thought, were one of the cleverest innovations of the Egyptians. In the deepest reaches of the valley’s tombs, fresh air was just as valuable as light, and far too valuable to risk polluting with oil lamp smoke. Very pure oil could be safely used, but for the majority of their tomb-lighting needs the Egyptians used a set of mirrors arranged so as to reflect daylight into the very furthest depths of the tombs with almost laughable ease.

A few more artisans walked past Aziraphale and the mirror, clutching their chisels and paints to their chests, and a moment later Pathtumon emerged.

“That should be all of them,” Pathtumon said, glancing at where the upper half of the sun’s disk was visible above the horizon. “They were here quite early; the light wasn’t very strong down there yet.”

“Good work ethic,” Aziraphale commented without really listening, nervous about what they were about to do. He’d been hoping Crowley would be early as well, and that he might even approach Aziraphale while Pathtumon was in the tomb, so they could have a private word, but the demon had failed to appear.

Pathtumon scanned the slopes of the valley, appearing to be thinking along similar lines. “The demon should be here any minute now.” He turned to Aziraphale and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Here, give me the amulet.”

Aziraphale blinked at Pathtumon, only barely stopping himself from instinctively wrapping his hand around the amulet tied at his waist.

“If the plan doesn’t work and the opportunity presents itself, I’ll try to switch it out for the real amulet,” Pathtumon explained. “With luck, the demon won’t notice.”

“I can do that,” Aziraphale tried, all too aware that the amulet hanging at his side _was_ the real one, and that, if Pathtumon realised that, he would give it straight to Heaven.

“I’ll be closer to him,” Pathtumon said, holding out his hand. “Hurry, I need to get into position.”

Aziraphale racked his brains for an excuse that would allow him to keep the amulet, but when nothing presented itself he reluctantly untied it from his kilt and handed it to Pathtumon.

For an anxious moment he thought Pathtumon might recognise it as the real one, but he only tied it at his own waist without more than glancing at it.

“Excellent. God be with you.” With that, Pathtumon turned and, glancing around at the hillsides again, sprinted down into the valley. When he was about ten metres away, he hunkered down behind a boulder next to a scraggly bush and vanished from sight.

Aziraphale dithered at the tomb entrance, nervously wringing his hands together and hoping very dearly that his plan worked.

The sun moved steadily higher in the sky, bathing the valley in beautiful golden light. When it was hanging a hairsbreadth above the nearest ridge, he spotted a figure making its way towards him along the valley floor.

Aziraphale could tell Crowley saw him because the figure changed course, veering closer and following one of the well-trodden paths up the hillside.

Aziraphale took a few steps forward, away from the mouth of the tomb, and watched nervously as Crowley neared. The demon strode past the boulder concealing Pathtumon without giving it more than a cursory glance. In fact, he seemed only mildly concerned about the meeting considering that Aziraphale had basically spelled out that he was walking into a trap.

“Good morning,” Crowley called sociably as he approached, reaching into the pleated folds of his kilt and beginning to pull the amulet free. Over Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale watched Pathtumon slip out from behind the boulder and advance quickly on the demon, footsteps silent.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, whether to warn Crowley or not he didn’t know, and in the same heartbeat Pathtumon took a huge step towards Crowley. The demon was still looking down at the amulet, and the braided gold cord had just slipped free from his kilt sash when Pathtumon’s arm reached around Crowley’s throat and yanked him back.

Crowley let out a faint wheeze and came to a stop, altogether not looking very surprised at this turn of events. Pathtumon dragged Crowley back a few steps until he had secured his grip on the demon, locking his arm tightly around his throat. A heartbeat later, he had produced a long gold dagger and was jabbing the tip into the soft skin on the underside of Crowley’s chin.

Aziraphale, who had no idea where Pathtumon had got the dagger from, scrambled down the hillside towards them in alarm.

“Hand over the amulet, demon,” Pathtumon hissed into Crowley’s ear, encouraging the demon to tilt his head to the side to avoid being any nearer to him than he had to.

Crowley’s eyes moved to Aziraphale as he skidded to a halt in front of them, and, without missing a beat, Crowley tossed him the amulet.

Aziraphale fumbled the catch but caught the amulet in the end, staring at Crowley in surprise. The demon gazed back at him, eyes cool and level, unafraid. _He thinks it’s a triple cross_ , Aziraphale realised. _He thinks I’m going to cross Pathtumon. He thinks I changed my mind and am going to destroy the amulet, like he asked_.

And, indeed, that had largely been Aziraphale’s plan, but he hadn’t expected Crowley to give up without a fight; he could hardly destroy the amulet now, with Pathtumon staring straight at him.

For a long moment nothing happened, the two angels mentally reassessing their respective plans. Pathtumon appeared somewhat stunned that Crowley had given up so easily. His gaze eventually roved to Aziraphale, who was still holding the fake amulet and staring back at them.

The moment grew even longer, and as Aziraphale hastily arranged his features into a suitably superior expression for Pathtumon’s benefit, he saw the first flicker of doubt cross Crowley’s face.

Pathtumon made a face at Aziraphale that indicated that he was happily impressed by how things had gone, and then turned his attention back to Crowley. The demon had gone rigid in Pathtumon’s grip, and was staring at Aziraphale as though trying to see straight into him. Aziraphale desperately wanted to give him some sort of sign, but he couldn’t seem to do anything more than stare back at Crowley helplessly.

That was when Pathtumon started to glow. The light seemed to radiate off his skin, the air around him snapping and making Crowley physically flinch at its proximity. At the same time, the angel’s corona raced up the blade of the dagger in Pathtumon’s hand, investing it with a dangerous divinity.

Aziraphale’s gaze jumped back and forth between Crowley and Pathtumon, mouth open and one foot forward, struggling to think of something to say. Crowley was still staring at him, breaths coming quick and fast, and, as he watched, Crowley’s eyes went blank with fear. For the first time since Pathtumon had grabbed him, he started to struggle, squirming and trying to duck out from underneath the angel’s arm.

Pathtumon’s grip was tight, though, and he drew the dagger back slightly, keeping its tip pointed at Crowley’s throat as he prepared to strike. Crowley was starting to gain some traction in his thrashings, but he was too slow, he wouldn’t be able to dodge the tip of the glowing blade in time—

“Wait,” Aziraphale said loudly, stepping forward and staring at Pathtumon as though he could stall the other angel’s motion by sheer force of will.

Pathtumon hesitated and glanced over at Aziraphale, the tip of the glowing dagger hovering a few inches from Crowley’s dark skin.

“What?”

“The—I—we can’t kill him.”

Pathtumon frowned at Aziraphale, and when Crowley made an admirable attempt to escape, kicking at Pathtumon’s shins and throwing his weight as far to one side as he could, Pathtumon shoved the blade up against the underside of his jaw again, until he drew blood. “Stop moving or I’ll kill you,” he growled.

Crowley went very still, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Pathtumon returned his attention to Aziraphale. “Why not? He gave us the amulet. He’s of no further use.”

Crowley’s eyes found Aziraphale’s and latched on. He looked properly frightened, gaze somehow both accusatory and pleading at the same time.

“It’s…not fair,” Aziraphale said, distracted by the desperation in Crowley’s serpentine eyes and flicking his own back to Pathtumon. “He gave us what we wanted, and sportingly at that. It’s not right to kill him in cold blood.”

Pathtumon frowned at Aziraphale, and when Crowley shifted slightly he shoved the dagger further against Crowley’s chin, forcing the demon’s head back as he tried to avoid the glowing blade. A few beads of blood rolled down its glowing length and vaporised under the intensity of divinity.

“It’s not in cold blood,” Pathtumon said. “He’s a demon.”

It was then that there came a faint rumble from above and behind Aziraphale. A few pebbles skipped down the hillside and landed at his feet.

The two angels looked down at them, and then in unison up towards where the rumble had abruptly turned into a roar.

Above the entrance to Horemheb’s tomb, a cloud of rock and dust was hurtling down the slope, bouncing and cracking off the ground as it thundered towards the three of them.

Pathtumon’s eyes widened and Crowley wasted no time in breaking free, launching himself to one side and rolling behind the shelter of a small overhang. Pathtumon threw himself in the opposite direction, back towards the boulder he’d been hiding behind earlier, and Aziraphale sprinted after Crowley.

Aziraphale was the slowest of the three of them, and he was forced to deflect the rocks bouncing his way with hasty miracles, barely avoiding several that sailed past his head at alarming speeds. As it was, one slammed into his arm rather hard and several smaller ones peppered his legs with bruises.

The distraction could not have been better timed, however; Aziraphale would have to actually get that scribe his promotion.

Aziraphale lurched out of the path of a particularly large stone and saw that the worst of the rockslide had already passed them, heading further down into the valley with a clattering roar. Legs smarting, Aziraphale staggered quickly towards the overhang he’d seen Crowley dive behind.

He found the demon half-buried under a pile of earth, shielding his head with his arms but appearing largely unharmed.

Crowley looked up as Aziraphale scrambled closer, sandals skidding on the loose gravel. Aziraphale threw himself to the ground next to his friend, hopefully out of the sight of Pathtumon for now.

Aziraphale pushed the amulet Crowley had tossed him back into the demon’s hands. For a moment their eyes met, and it seemed like a world of understanding passed between them. “Run.”

Crowley nodded and scrambled to his feet, rocks and sand cascading off of him as he did so. A thin haze of dust was hanging in the air, but Crowley veered unerringly down the slope and towards the valley floor.

The demon hadn’t taken more than a few steps before he skidded to a halt, and Aziraphale saw Pathtumon’s hazy form moving towards them through the dust, blocking Crowley’s path.

“Shit,” Crowley said, and spun and started sprinting up the slope instead, disappearing into the sandy haze.

Aziraphale made his way to his feet as Pathtumon staggered towards him out of the dust, appearing winded. He spotted Aziraphale and gave him a questioning glance.

Aziraphale raised his empty hands and pointed after Crowley, indicating that the demon had stolen the amulet from him.

He heard Pathtumon utter something that might have been a swear, and then Pathtumon altered his course and started jogging up the slope after Crowley, loose rocks slipping out from under his sandals. Aziraphale followed him.

The haze of dust hanging in the air cleared as they moved higher, and Aziraphale watched with faint alarm as he saw first Crowley and then Pathtumon vanish into the mouth of Horemheb’s tomb.

Aziraphale jogged after them, only taking a moment to adjust the mirror outside the tomb to compensate for the sun’s movement in the sky. Even with the thin screen of dust in the air, the interior of the tomb visibly brightened, and Aziraphale sprinted into its mouth after Pathtumon.

The floor of the tomb sloped downwards, flattened out, and then sloped downwards again, the smooth walls plain and undecorated. He could see Pathtumon in front of him, the whiteness of his linen robe standing out in the half-light. It was uncomfortably warm inside the tomb, and Aziraphale could smell the gypsum plaster and fresh paint on the walls.

The floor flattened out again before long, and Aziraphale slowed in panic as he saw the ground abruptly fall away a metre or so ahead.

He hesitantly approached the upcoming room, a square one with beautifully painted reliefs of the Egyptian gods decorating the blue walls. But though the base of the paintings sat at what should have been floor level, there was no such floor to speak of. Instead, the ground dropped away sharply, into a deep square pit that would have been impossible to cross had not a few sturdy-looking wooden planks been enlisted to bridge the chasm.

Aziraphale eyed the planks uncertainly, but Crowley and Pathtumon had already crossed them and vanished into the deeper reaches of the tomb, so he supposed it must be safe enough. Trying to avoid looking down as much as possible, Aziraphale strode quickly across the planks and broke back into a sprint once he was back on solid stone ground.

He passed through another small square room, this one supported by two painted pillars and partially filled with baskets of foodstuffs. He followed a flight of stairs even deeper, grateful for the reflected light illuminating his path. The air was growing stale this far from the surface, but at least he knew he was still going in the right direction; he could hear the echoing footsteps of Crowley and Pathtumon ahead of him somewhere.

Aziraphale sprinted into yet another room as he heard Pathtumon snarl something, followed a moment later by a loud thud. This room was beautifully painted much like the one with the planks, but thankfully the floor was intact here. Above his head, the ceiling had been washed dark blue and patterned with gold geometric stars. The life-size animal-headed Egyptian gods stared disapprovingly down at Aziraphale as he jogged past them and into the next room, which was the largest so far.

Six great square pillars in two rows stretched in front of him, the area around them cluttered with beautifully painted pottery, jewellery, wooden storage chests, cloth, musical instruments, and the like.

Aziraphale’s pace slackened, his attention quickly fixing on where Crowley and Pathtumon were wrestling on the floor. Crowley had succeeded in knocking Pathtumon’s gold-bladed dagger out of his hand, and it was lying on the floor not far away, half-underneath a nearby chair. Pathtumon had his hands wrapped around Crowley’s neck and seemed to be doing his best to throttle him, but even as Aziraphale watched they rolled over and Crowley took his turn trying to scratch Pathtumon’s eyes out.

Aziraphale cast his eyes over them hastily until he spied Pathtumon’s amulet—the real amulet—still hanging from Pathtumon’s kilt sash. He was debating how best to get it when Crowley elbowed Pathtumon in the throat and fumbled at the angel’s side, untying the amulet at Pathtumon’s waist with surprising deftness.

Either Pathtumon didn’t notice or he didn’t care, because he appeared entirely focussed on trying to tug the amulet Aziraphale had given Crowley off the demon’s kilt sash, though Crowley had tied his significantly more securely.

Pathtumon gave up for the moment, and, when Crowley adjusted his weight and glanced back at where Aziraphale was breathing heavily and trying to decide how best to help, he surged towards his dagger.

Crowley hissed and tried to stop Pathtumon, and the two scrabbled on the floor for another moment. Aziraphale started forward as Pathtumon managed to close his hand around the jewelled hilt of the dagger, and Crowley took the opportunity to hastily shove the amulet he’d taken from Pathtumon into Aziraphale’s waiting hands.

Aziraphale moved around the pair of them and ducked out of sight behind a pillar as Crowley surged to his feet and sprinted back in the direction of the tomb entrance. Pathtumon gained his feet a moment later, fumbling at his side for his missing amulet and spitting in frustration. Aziraphale had been hoping Pathtumon would be too engrossed in following Crowley and what he believed to be the real amulet to take much note of where Aziraphale and the supposedly fake amulet had gone, and he was right. Without even a glance around the room, Pathtumon sprinted after Crowley.

“You thrice-damned thief!” Pathtumon screeched, feet pounding on the stone.

Aziraphale gave it a beat and then looked down at the amulet in his hands. Just to be certain, he held it as close to his face as he could, squinting at it in the reflected light from a nearby mirror until he was able to confirm that this was the real one.

He remembered Crowley asking him to destroy it and thus remove its powers from the board completely. Crowley hadn’t even known what it did—Crowley _still_ didn’t know what it did, as far as he knew—but his decision still seemed the wisest. For many reasons, Aziraphale didn’t want to give it to Heaven, but he didn’t trust Crowley with it either, even with the knowledge of its whereabouts. Even if Crowley was personally inclined to keep it off the board, he was far too close to Hell for Aziraphale to feel comfortable trusting him with anything important, and especially anything powerful. He was still a demon, after all. They worked for different sides.

Aziraphale turned, leaned his back against the pillar, and let out a breath, the amulet heavy in his hand. It was with surprise that his gaze fell on something in the rear of the hall that he had somehow overlooked on his way in: in a sunken area at the base of yet another short flight of steps sat a beautiful red granite sarcophagus. As Aziraphale approached, curious, he saw that figures of the Egyptian gods lined the front, and goddesses with broad, sweeping wings stood at each corner. The lid of the sarcophagus was curved and unadorned, and sat propped up next to the base, waiting to be settled into its proper position. Further reliefs, these unpainted, covered the walls around the sarcophagus.

Aziraphale looked around the sunken area, which was filled with more baskets and vases. Intrigued, he glanced back across the pillared hall and then walked down the short flight of steps towards the sarcophagus, admiring the beautiful carvings on its side. It was much larger than he had initially thought, almost three metres long and as tall as his chest. He peered inside curiously, but nothing but smooth red granite surfaces greeted him. He took a few paces around the sarcophagus, gaze wandering back to the piles of worldly treasure arrayed around it. His attention focussed itself on a sheathed dagger with a jewelled hilt sitting on an inlaid wooden stool, and he walked over, picked it up, and drew it. The faint reflected light gleamed off the leaf-shaped bronze blade, which had been beaten to what looked like a very sharp point indeed.

With the dagger in one hand and the amulet in the other, Aziraphale looked down at the choice before him. He knew he ought to destroy the amulet, and this dagger would easily do the trick, but…the amulet was one-of-a-kind. Aziraphale liked one-of-a-kind things. He also knew that, if he ever encountered difficult times in the future, it would be a good ace to have up his sleeve.

Aziraphale bit his lip, looking between the dagger and the amulet and knowing that all he had to do was plunge the blade into the crystal on the top, and maybe gouge some lines in the disc for good measure, and its power would be destroyed forever. After that, he could melt it down, chip it into pieces, or even toss it into the Nile just to be on the safe side. For something magical like this, nonmagical means of destruction would be the most effective.

Aziraphale felt time running past him, and knew that he’d been standing there for far too long. Pathtumon might have caught Crowley by now, or started looking for Aziraphale. The problem was, if Aziraphale left the tomb with the amulet in his possession, Pathtumon would almost certainly notice and demand that Aziraphale hand it over, even if he did think it was the useless duplicate.

Aziraphale swallowed, gaze shifting from the amulet to the red granite sarcophagus behind it in his field of vision.

But what if he didn’t _leave_ the tomb with it…?

Aziraphale’s first thought was to hide the amulet in the sarcophagus itself, but it would be awfully conspicuous in the large, empty space inside, and he doubted he could lift the heavy-looking stone lid to seal the sarcophagus. Besides, it was the most obvious hiding place.

So Aziraphale turned, taking a moment to re-sheathe the dagger and return it to its place on the stool. He swept his gaze along the piles of goods and treasure next, until his eyes ground to a halt on a basket sitting on the floor a few paces away. It was filled with gems and small amulets, none quite as large as the one in his hand but clearly cut from the same metaphorical cloth.

Aziraphale looked between the amulet, the basket, and the pillared hall, and shoved the amulet into the basket. He pawed some of the other amulets over it, took a moment to imprint the exact location of the basket in his memory, and sprinted up the stairs and across the pillared hall.

When he finally emerged into the sunlight several minutes later, he was panting with exertion; climbing up out of the tomb hadn’t felt so very different than crawling out of a traditional grave. The fresh air was also a welcome relief, and Aziraphale gulped in deep breaths of it as he quickly scanned the surrounding valley for any sign of Pathtumon or Crowley.

He spotted them partway down the ridge not far ahead, the two alternating yanking each other to the rocky ground and scrambling to their feet.

“I’ll kill you, you abomination!” Pathtumon shrieked as Aziraphale ran towards them as fast as his feet would carry him. Pathtumon had the gold dagger in his hand, but Crowley had become adept at dodging Pathtumon’s wild swings and he knocked the angel to the ground with a well-aimed kick at one of his opponent’s hamstrings.

As Aziraphale watched, Crowley tried to take a step away from Pathtumon, the fake amulet gleaming in his hand, but Pathtumon grabbed onto his ankles and sent him toppling to the ground. Crowley grunted as he hit the sand, but wasted no time in lashing out blindly at Pathtumon as the angel tried to crawl on top of the demon to gain an advantage.

“Pathtumon!” Aziraphale shouted as he neared, because he wanted to let Crowley know he was there.

Pathtumon paused in his attempt to pin Crowley down and twisted his head up to look at where Aziraphale was scrambling closer to them, feet sending a small shower of rocks bouncing along before him like a vanguard. Crowley glanced at him very briefly as well, and then he half-turned and smashed the amulet in his hand against a nearby rock.

Pathtumon heard the noise and spun his head back around just in time to see Crowley hurl the broken amulet away from himself, sending it sailing over a slight rise and out of sight.

“No!” Pathtumon shrieked, half-sitting up so he could stare at where the amulet had dropped out of view.

Aziraphale finally reached the two of them as Crowley, capitalising on Pathtumon’s moment of distraction, wrenched the gold dagger from his hand.

Pathtumon barely seemed to notice, instead surging to his feet and scrambling across the rocks in the direction Crowley had thrown the amulet.

Crowley unsteadily made his way to his feet as Pathtumon vanished into a dip in the rocky slope. There were several fresh red marks on Crowley’s face, as well as bruises and cuts on his forearms, and he looked like he’d taken a hard kick to the stomach at some point. “Where’s the amulet?” he asked Aziraphale breathlessly, pressing a hand to his side and wincing.

“I…destroyed it,” Aziraphale lied, guilt already settling over him. Crowley had done a lot for him, for Aziraphale’s _plan_ , without even knowing what it was. “You should go now, before he comes back.”

Crowley nodded, looking exhausted and like he didn’t need telling twice. With a wary look in the direction Pathtumon had gone, Crowley took a short running start down the valley, spread black wings, and pushed off.

Aziraphale watched him go for a moment and then turned and walked calmly after Pathtumon. He found his angelic partner digging around in some rocks on a particularly craggy slope, his efforts sending stones clacking down the incline.

“I—I can’t—” Pathtumon’s voice was strained and panicked in a way Aziraphale had never heard it before. “It’s got to be—it _has_ to be—” Pathtumon broke off and plunged his hand into a narrow space between two rocks. When he pulled his arm back out a heartbeat later, the amulet was hanging crookedly from his shaking fingers. Even from where Aziraphale stood, he could see that it was ruined beyond repair.

Pathtumon just stared at it for a minute, sitting there on the slope with the mangled remains of the amulet hanging from his fingers. Aziraphale crossed to him, calmly folded his hands in front of himself, and joined Pathtumon in looking down at the amulet. The scarab crystal at the top had been completely shattered, and the entire disc was bent out of shape. Much of the fine hieroglyphic writing had also been scratched out of legibility.

“No,” Pathtumon said at last, voice numb. He looked up at Aziraphale, expression almost tearful. Then something seemed to occur to him, hope flitting across his face all at once. “The other one,” he said breathlessly, scrambling to his feet and putting a hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “The fake one, brother, where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said.

Pathtumon looked disappointed but not deterred. “We’ll find it then, we need to find it—”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked calmly.

Pathtumon’s gaze moved between Aziraphale and the destroyed amulet in his hands, expression a little panicked. “We—we’ll give the fake one to Heaven, and when it doesn’t work we’ll just say that the—that the real one never worked in the first place, and—and—”

“They’ll see right through that,” Aziraphale said, extracting his arm from Pathtumon’s grip.

Pathtumon looked like his entire world was falling apart around him. “But we—you and I—we’ll have to—”

“ _I_ was just doing my job,” Aziraphale stated. “ _You_ were the one who lost the amulet, and _you_ were the one who wanted a fake to be made in the first place. This whole thing was _your_ idea.”

“No, no, no, please, you’ve got to help me—”

Aziraphale patted Pathtumon consolingly on the shoulder. “How about we call Heaven and explain it all to them? We can do it together.”


	10. The Tomb of Horemheb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags.

**The Tomb of Horemheb, the Valley of the Kings**

February 24th, 1908

 

Crowley’s breaths were fast and shallow in the darkness, heart hammering in his throat.

“A—Aziraphale?” He could hear the quiver in his own voice, and he braced himself to hear a distant thump and a muffled cry telling him that the angel was separated from him.

But then there was a short intake of breath from somewhere very close by, and Aziraphale’s voice said, “I’m here.”

A rush of intense relief flooded Crowley, quickly followed by disbelief. He started stumbling blindly in the direction the words had come from, hands cautiously extended. He realised he still had the dagger he had wrested from Ba-En-Kekon in one hand, and he hastily shoved it into his belt.

“Where?” Crowley asked, voice not as steady as he would have liked, as he moved closer to where he thought he could hear the sounds of someone breathing rather heavily. A few seconds later, his questing fingers brushed something that felt like Aziraphale’s arm and latched on, relief sweeping through him again.

“Here,” Aziraphale’s disembodied voice said, and Crowley felt the object under his hand shift. A moment later, he felt Aziraphale’s hand pat his forearm reassuringly.

Crowley stared at the place where he thought his friend’s head was, but he couldn’t see anything, not even the angel’s outline; he supposed it would take a moment for his eyes to adjust. The silence was equally impenetrable; the only things Crowley could hear apart from the pounding of his own heart in his ears were the sounds of their breaths, both coming faster than normal.

“Wh—what happened?” Crowley asked, and his voice seemed too loud in the space. It echoed slightly, and he cast his eyes nervously around the darkness surrounding them, suddenly not even certain which direction they had come from.

“There’s a…a second door,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little breathless still. “Triggered by stepping on a scarab tile. It’s insurance against thieves. The door’s airtight.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. In the ensuing silence, he drew a deep breath, feeling suddenly very relieved that Aziraphale had made it into the tomb with him; he would have hated being here alone, in this empty, echoing darkness with nothing but his own hyperventilating breaths for company.

Unnerved by the darkness, which didn’t seem to be clearing, Crowley moved his hand further up Aziraphale’s arm, trying to reassure himself through touch alone that Aziraphale was really there. When he reached his friend’s shoulder, his fingertips touched something wet and warm, and he felt a thrill of fear pass through him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said hoarsely, pressing the palm of his hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder and moving it around in urgent pats, trying to locate the injury.

“No, I’m not,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand on his wrist, trying to still its motion.

“There’s blood, I can feel it,” Crowley said, voice hoarse, but though he could feel it sticking to the palm of his hand he hadn’t yet managed to find the source. “Oh Somebody, you didn’t get shot, did you?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale said as Crowley continued to fearfully pat down most of Aziraphale’s chest and shoulders in the utter blackness, convinced he was right.

“Really, Crowley, I’m okay,” Aziraphale added, finally succeeded in grabbing onto Crowley’s hand and holding it fast. “It’s from my mouth, is all. That demon packs a hell of a punch.”

Crowley felt himself go a little breathless as he gazed through the darkness towards the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, still not entirely convinced. “You’re breathing heavily,” he protested.

Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley felt him enclose Crowley’s hand in both of his own, palms warm. “So are you. And I was just running, Crowley. I’m out of shape. It happens.”

This seemed reassuringly logical, and Crowley allowed himself to calm down slightly, though he was still on edge. The darkness surrounding them seemed deeper than it should have been, and it unnerved him in a way he’d almost never felt in the dark before. And the memory of the one other time he could think of certainly wasn’t offering any reassurance now.

“You’re—you’re sure?” Crowley asked anxiously.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was reassuringly strong. “How about you?”

Crowley blinked in Aziraphale’s direction and patted himself down with his free hand, but despite his wildly beating heart he seemed to be intact. “I—I’m fine.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and let it go. “Good.”

At that moment, there was a muffled clatter and a very loud thump from directly beside Crowley’s head.

Crowley jumped and lurched away from the noise, reaching out and reclaiming his grip on Aziraphale’s arm. “What the hell—”

Crowley swallowed his words as he realised what must be happening. He took another step backwards, shoes skidding on the uneven floor, trying to drag Aziraphale along with him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale said as he allowed Crowley to pull him a pace or two away as another loud, echoing _thud_ filled the space. Crowley felt the stone under his feet vibrate.

“They’ll get through that door in two seconds flat,” Crowley said, taking another step back and feeling the back of his heel bump against what felt like a large rock. “Can we get some light, maybe there’s something in here we can arm ourselves with, or—or—”

“It’s all right, Crowley, they won’t get through,” Aziraphale said, voice carefully neutral.

Crowley, only half-listening, drew a quick breath and waved his free hand, intending on conjuring a ball of light. To his immense surprise, nothing happened.

Crowley felt his breaths double, and he waved his hand again, more pointedly this time. “Light,” he tried, feeling the darkness encroaching even further on him, pressing against him on all sides like an impenetrable wall, darker than the Abyss had ever been.

“That won’t work either,” Aziraphale said.

“ _Light_ ,” Crowley said again, releasing Aziraphale’s hand to gesture with both of his own and beginning to feel real panic set in as he failed to manifest enough brightness to even indicate the locations of his own gesturing hands.

“Crowley, my dear—” Aziraphale said carefully, and Crowley felt a light touch on his shoulder.

“Help me then,” Crowley snapped, and jumped again as the floor shook, the stone door thrumming with the noise.

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale said, moving his hand so it was resting near Crowley’s elbow. “This whole tomb is warded against magic.”

Crowley, trying for a fourth time to conjure light, stilled his hands. He turned his head towards Aziraphale. “ _Wh—what?”_

“I—er—magic won’t work in here,” Aziraphale said, and now there was a distinctly guilty note in his voice. “The demons will never get through that door by magical means, and it’ll take them quite a while by non-magical means as well. We’re safe for now.”

“Horemheb had his tomb bloody—bloody— _magic-proofed?”_ Crowley’s voice was incredulous, his heart still hammering in his chest. He’d never given Horemheb much credit for anything.

Something collided loudly with the tomb door again, but Crowley didn’t jump quite as much this time.

“Er, Horemheb didn’t,” Aziraphale said. “I did.”

Crowley stared towards his friend, eyes struggling to penetrate the darkness. It took him a moment to find his voice. “ _Why?”_

He heard Aziraphale clear his throat. “You remember when I said there was a weapon in here?”

“Oh no.”

He heard Aziraphale draw in a long breath. “Well, I wanted it to be protected, didn’t I?”

Crowley thought that through. The ground shook again, this time accompanied by the staccato sound of muffled gunfire. He glanced nervously in the direction of the sound, but when it broke off a few moments later, the tomb was just as dark and unaccessible as it had been before. “How long will that door hold?”

Aziraphale took a moment to respond. “With non-magical means, an hour, maybe two. If they only try magical, longer.”

Crowley nodded and then remembered that Aziraphale couldn’t see him. “Right. Okay.” He made a concerted effort to calm down. “So where’s this weapon? We’ll ambush them when they come in.”

There was a slight pause and then Aziraphale let out a long breath. “What’s your Hell business?”

Crowley only blinked in Aziraphale’s direction for a moment. He still couldn’t make out anything of Aziraphale’s profile in the darkness. “I—what?”

“Your Hell business. Why you’re in Egypt. Why did Hell send you?”

Crowley swallowed and automatically averted his eyes, though it was a rather pointless motion. “Ah, just the usual. You know. It doesn’t matter.”

He could tell from the way that Aziraphale’s hand tightened on his arm that the angel didn’t believe him for a second. “The truth, Crowley.”

“Why does it matter anyway?” Crowley asked reproachfully, pulling his arm free of Aziraphale’s grip and then instantly regretting it—without something to ground him, he felt awash in the invariable, never-ending blackness. He felt slightly dizzy and widened his stance to compensate.

“It matters,” Aziraphale said firmly, “because I’m not going to take you to the weapon if Hell ordered you to steal it. And I need to know what else is going on here, and why those demons outside are after us.”

Crowley fished around for a convenient lie, but nothing came to mind. He sniffed in a vaguely haughty manner.

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, voice slightly softer. “We’re trapped in here. I need to know all the facts.”

Crowley sniffed again and reluctantly gave in. “Fine,” he said testily. “I made it all up.”

When Aziraphale didn’t reply right away, Crowley dragged out, “There was no Hell business. Hell didn’t send me. I haven’t heard from them in months. And I don’t know anything more about those demons outside than you do.”

“Then…then why were you in Luxor? There’s nothing here except the Valley. And for you to run into me—surely it wasn’t just coincidence…?” Aziraphale sounded honestly puzzled. “And you were all the way in New York City…?”

Crowley took a deep breath and crossed his arms. The angel really was going to make him say it, wasn’t he? “If you really _must_ know,” Crowley began haughtily, “I was in America, brushing shoulders with all the best and brightest, as they say, but after a while, even the best and brightest…” Crowley sniffed again, struggling to maintain his detached, superior tone. “Well, they’re all _boring_ , aren’t they? Just a load of humans when it comes right down to it. They didn’t really _get_ things, didn’t _understand_ , and there was no one I could _talk to_ —” Crowley felt that he was dangerously close to saying something aloud that he really ought to keep to himself, so he hastily switched tacts. “So I went back to London, and Madam Constance said you’d got it in your head to go to Luxor, so I thought…you know. That I’d…drop by.” Crowley clamped his mouth shut and dearly hoped that Aziraphale did, in fact, _know_.

Fortunately, Aziraphale seemed to have picked up on what Crowley was saying. “Oh,” he said, the surprise in his voice undisguised. “I didn’t— _that_ explains why you were so chatty—I thought you were just—” Aziraphale seemed to catch himself and stumbled on, “I’m sorry, Crowley, I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley dismissed, turning and staggering across some sort of rock-strewn terrain in the direction of the interior of the tomb. He still couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, and, given that one of his demonic talents included night vision, this was especially alarming.

“Are you sure there isn’t any way we can get some light in this blasted place?” Crowley asked, tripping over what he thought was a rather large block of stone.

“Can’t you see?” Aziraphale’s voice asked from behind him in surprise, accompanied by the sound of stones knocking against each other.

“Not a thing,” Crowley hissed. “I suppose it’s your damned magic-proofing.” Either that, Crowley thought to himself, or it was because his night vision was really _low-light_ vision. Even Hell had the slightest hints of light filtering down from Earth, but this place…the airtight door must have been lightproof as well, and Crowley doubted that there were any other paths to the surface. It was all just bedrock from here on down; when it came to tombs, the Egyptians had been particularly fond of virgin rock.

“Me neither,” Aziraphale admitted. “There might be a torch or lamp around here somewhere, though…I know this place was robbed in antiquity, and they might have left something behind…”

“Any of those handy mirrors anywhere?” Crowley asked hopefully, halting his forward movement when he felt the uneven pile of rubble he was standing on start slanting downward, shifting perilously underfoot.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear him knocking some rocks around nearby.

“How do you know?” Crowley asked, mostly to continue the conversation.

“They took them out when they sealed the tomb. And we would have still needed a light source anyway.”

Crowley grunted and fell silent for a moment. The more he stared into the darkness, the more he felt trapped, caught like a fly in a web. Then he noticed something else.

“They’ve stopped trying to get through the door.”

Aziraphale paused in his rummaging, and a complete silence fell over the tomb.

For a heartbeat, Crowley imagined that he was trapped there alone, body preserved in the cool, dry darkness of the tomb for eternity. It was a chilling thought, and he was all too glad when Aziraphale spoke a moment later.

“So they have. Left to get better supplies, I imagine. They’ll be back.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement.

“They’d better,” Aziraphale continued, the sound of shifting rocks resuming, “otherwise we’re stuck in here.”

Crowley was still digesting this horrifying news when he heard Aziraphale drag something out of the rubble.

“A-ha! We’re in business. Well…” There were a few muffled sounds, like wood being dragged across stone. “I think it’s a torch, at any rate. Bit old, but should do the trick. Do you have anything flammable we can wrap the end with?”

Crowley felt around himself and pulled free the silk tie from around his neck. It was quite a nice tie, but fat lot of good it was doing him down here.

“Here,” Crowley said, picking his way as best he could over to Aziraphale. It took him a few tries before his hand found Aziraphale, and then he handed the angel the strip of cloth. “Do you have anything to light it with?”

“Luckily, I was planning on bringing a lantern to explore with later,” Aziraphale said, sounding quite cheered, “and I took the precaution of grabbing some matches from Davis’s camp. We should have this burning in no time.”

Crowley felt a strong wave of relief. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the darkness. “Good.”

He stood by, feeling a bit useless, while Aziraphale fiddled with the torch. Eventually, the angel handed him the base of the torch and told him to hold it steady.

When Aziraphale struck a spark into existence a moment later, the tomb positively exploded into light. The darkness jumped into the farthest corners of Crowley’s vision, revealing rough stone walls and a small mountain of rocky debris clogging the tunnel before them, which started sloping downwards at a somewhat alarming rate. Most of Crowley’s attention was riveted on Aziraphale’s face, though, as it sprang into existence from the darkness. Despite the harsh light cast across his features, the mere visual confirmation of his presence reassured Crowley more than a hundred spoken words could have.

The burst of light blinked out as quickly as it had come, but the darkness wasn’t quite so oppressive this time, the image of Aziraphale’s face still imprinted on Crowley’s retinas.

The hazy red Aziraphale-shaped blobs in Crowley’s vision cleared a second later when Aziraphale struck a second match. This one burned a little longer, and Aziraphale hastily pushed the match head into the bundled fabric of Crowley’s tie where it was wrapped around the top of the slender wooden torch.

Aziraphale leaned closer and blew on the ember gently, and as the flame set Crowley found himself grinning a little at the angel, again relieved beyond words that he wasn’t trapped in here alone.

Aziraphale gently fanned the tongue of fire a bit more, and as it grew a little larger he straightened up, satisfied. He looked up and met Crowley’s eyes, and from the speed of the contact it was clear that Aziraphale could see him too. Crowley gave him a tentative smile.

“Don’t let that blow out,” Aziraphale instructed, and turned to survey the tunnel before them. Crowley held the torch in Aziraphale’s direction so the angel could see better, and looked over his shoulder.

Behind him, he could see the ‘second door’ that Aziraphale had mentioned, less a door than an oversized slab of granite that appeared to have fallen from somewhere above. He could see several lines of writing on the slab, elegant hieroglyphs with smooth curving lines and carefully chiselled terminals. He’d recognise Aziraphale’s overly meticulous handwriting anywhere.

“You made the door,” Crowley observed.

He heard Aziraphale shifting some rocks behind him. “Yes. Originally I just warded the tomb proper, but when it was robbed in, oh, was it early Twentieth Dynasty? Ramesses IV was pharaoh. Anyway, I came back and did a better job of it.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t steal this weapon of yours.”

Aziraphale made a noise that indicated that he didn’t disagree. “I was lucky, that’s for sure. And that’s why I’m back now—here, Crowley, come along. The—er, weapon’s at the bottom.”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, who was already several paces down the slope of debris. “Of course it is,” he grumbled, following Aziraphale. “What was that you were saying?”

“Oh, just that that’s why I’m here now—I’m not actually on Heaven business either.”

Crowley made a noise of surprise as he picked his way after Aziraphale, hands outstretched to help his balance, the torch heavy in one of them.

“I was reading about them, actually,” Aziraphale admitted as they moved further down into the tomb. “Davis and Carter and all the rest. They’ve been picking the Valley dry for years. It looked like they might actually find this place, so…let’s just say I took a trip to safeguard an investment.”

“You are going to tell me what this weapon _is_ , aren’t you?” Crowley asked, following Aziraphale deeper.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, sounding distracted. The tunnel floor had steepened considerably underfoot, and the debris rose in undulating piles before them. It looked like there had been a small landslide, except _inside_ the tomb.

“Where did all this even _come_ from?” Crowley asked, bemused.

“Some of it was filled in when they sealed the tomb, to deter robbers,” Aziraphale explained, “but it also looks like the ceiling collapsed.” He gestured upwards, into the darkness. “Here, hand me the torch, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley did as he was asked, and the two of them descended even deeper, the rubble making some very unstable sounds underfoot.

“It still smells _awful_ down here,” Crowley commented between breaths. He’d nearly resorted to a sort of backwards-crawling as they descended a very steep incline, unfortunate collisions with the rocks already promising him bruises on his shins.

“Switching the air out magically was a good idea,” Aziraphale said from in front of him, the light of the torch bobbing invitingly in his field of vision. “I wasn’t sure if that would even work, with the warding. But we do need the oxygen while we’re down here.”

Crowley’s gaze moved to the torch, weighing Aziraphale’s words. To a certain extent, he’d rather have its light than air. “How much good air do you think is down here?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Aziraphale assured him. The angel reached the bottom of the slope and started straightening up next to a painted doorframe. “We’d die of dehydration first.”

“Great,” Crowley huffed, reaching the bottom and taking the hand Aziraphale offered him to help him to his feet.

He started to move past Aziraphale into the next room, but the angel grabbed him roughly by the arm. “Careful. The next room’s the…well…it doesn’t have a floor.”

This succeeded in bringing Crowley to a halt. Taking care not to disturb the rocks underfoot, he stuck his head forward and through the doorway.

As Aziraphale had said, the floor of the next room was non-existent, leaving a drop of some fifteen feet. Fortunately, part of the ceiling had caved in here too, and there was a massive pile of rubble sitting in what would have once been a formidable chasm. It didn’t look like too far of a drop to the surface of the debris pile.

Crowley moved his gaze up, and as his eyes tracked along the crumbling paintings of Horemheb and the gods lining the walls, he felt an incredible sense of déjà vu.

“This looks familiar,” he said, mostly to himself, casting his mind back. The problem was, six thousand years was a lot of history to sift through, and Crowley had always prided himself on trying to fill his days with as many experiences as he could. Besides, Aziraphale’s memory was usually good enough for the both of them.

“Does it look like we can get across?” Aziraphale asked from beside him, holding the smouldering torch aloft.

Crowley put the matter of his poor memory aside for now and pointed downwards. “I reckon we could climb down, walk across, and climb up the other side. There’re enough rocks and stuff we could make a ramp easily enough if we had to.”

Aziraphale peered down worriedly and adjusted his grip on the torch, its light dancing faintly on the wall paintings. “All right. You first?”

A bit loathe to test his hypothesis but supposing it was his fault for having thought of it in the first place, Crowley edged closer and lowered himself into a crouch. When he was right on the edge of where the floor ended, he turned, put his arms on the tomb floor, and started shifting his body over the edge.

He immediately felt like he was going to slip, but Aziraphale knelt down next to him and grabbed one of his arms so he could help Crowley lower himself down better.

Before long Crowley was dangling over the edge, beginning to seriously regret his idea while clinging to Aziraphale’s arm a little more tightly than absolutely necessary.

“I don’t think you’re far off the ground,” Aziraphale told him encouragingly.

Crowley took a deep breath and forced himself to loosen his grip on Aziraphale’s arm. He sank lower, and when he finally relinquished his grip on the edge of the sheer face, bracing himself for a fall, he only dropped a few inches.

The rubble shifted alarmingly under his feet, but he caught himself quickly and found stable footing. He looked up at where Aziraphale was peering down over the edge, holding the torch out over the edge.

“It’s not that far,” Crowley told him, trying to hide how much he was sweating.

Aziraphale reached down to hand him the torch and then lowered himself down the same way Crowley had, Crowley helping as much as he could from the ground.

They then crossed the square, rubble-filled chasm and looked up at the opposite lip. Due to the uneven distribution of the debris, floor level was slightly closer on this side, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale’s corporations possessed the sheer athletic ability necessary to pull itself up with only a fingerhold, and neither of them particularly wanted to try.

Instead, they rolled some of the rocks closer, forming a makeshift staircase, and when it was high enough Crowley gave Aziraphale a leg up. Crowley grunted as he took the angel’s full weight, and almost dropped him, but they’d decided that, between them, Crowley would be the easier to pull up.

They did that next, and though it was clear that Aziraphale’s arms were tiring, Crowley desperately didn’t want to stay down there, and between his squirming and clawing and Aziraphale’s well-intentioned pulling Crowley managed to gain the higher ground.

For a long moment the two of them just sat there, both breathing heavily while the torch cast flickering reverse-shadows on the walls.

When they’d mostly caught their breaths, Aziraphale stood up. Crowley would have been happy to rest there for a little longer, but reluctantly heaved himself to his feet after his friend.

They resumed their journey through the tomb’s tunnel, which continued sloping downwards into the earth. If Crowley hadn’t known better, he’d have thought they were descending into Hell.

The rubble was higher here, clogging the narrow tunnel, and they made slow progress. Crowley was beginning to think that, if he got out of this alive, there wouldn’t be a part of him not covered in bruises. As it was, he was not looking forward to crawling back into and out of the half-filled chasm to get out again later.

“This had better be some weapon,” Crowley muttered as they staggered further on.

Five minutes later, they emerged into a small square room with painted blue walls like those in the chasm room. Luckily, the floor here seemed very much intact, though it was hard to tell from the huge pile of rubble pressed against the opposite side of the room.

Aziraphale moved purposefully through the space, but Crowley slowed, his gaze arrested by the beautiful painted figures. He vividly recalled his erstwhile life as Overseer of the Royal Gardens, and he felt the sense of déjà vu strengthen.

Aziraphale scrambled up the pile of debris on the opposite side of the room, where only the top two feet or so of a doorway was still visible. The angel started awkwardly pulling himself through the narrow gap as Crowley clambered up after him.

The room dimmed as Aziraphale and the torch vanished into the next room, and Crowley wasted no time slipping through the tight space after the angel. He shifted awkwardly down the rubble on the other side until he reached an area flat enough to merit his climbing to his feet. Only then did he bother to look around himself.

The room was a hall held up by six square pillars, and though rubble clustered around the feet of the chipped pillars and the paint was faded and flaking, he remembered when the colours had been fresh— _very_ fresh, he could still remember the smell of the paint—and the piles of broken rock had been baskets and vases and furniture…

For the first time, Crowley put together the significance of this being _Horemheb’s_ tomb.

His eyes tracked from a particular stretch of floor over to where he could distinctly see the upper edge of a red granite sarcophagus, where Aziraphale, torch in hand, was already headed.

“ _Horemheb_ ,” Crowley said, quickly crossing the distance to Aziraphale, the rubble thinner here. “I didn’t think it was—”

Aziraphale made his way down the short flight of steps and into the sunken area where the sarcophagus of Horemheb lay.

Crowley strode closer, kicking aside a small rock in his path as he did so. “This is about that bloody amulet, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale propped the torch up in some nearby rocks and turned his gaze to the sarcophagus, a distinctly guilty expression on his face. He didn’t reply.

Crowley marched down the steps, ignoring the rocks that speared into the soles of his shoes. “You told me you destroyed it, Aziraphale, you _swore_ to me—”

Aziraphale wrung his hands and looked over at Crowley reluctantly. “I’m sorry. I know I lied to you—and I should have destroyed it, I _wanted_ to—but I just _couldn’t_. I didn’t want to give it to Heaven, but I didn’t trust you at the time either, and I thought it might come in handy someday. It was…selfish.”

“You’ve got that right,” Crowley snapped, crossing the short distance to the sarcophagus and prodding experimentally at the lid. He was a little upset about Aziraphale’s betrayal, but it had happened so long ago now that it seemed a little pointless to keep a grudge over it. Besides, he had bigger things to worry about. “So, what does it do?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, seeming surprised that he wasn’t receiving a tongue-lashing. “Pardon?”

“The amulet, what does it do?” Crowley asked, beginning to circle the sarcophagus. From the way Aziraphale had been casting it guilty glances, he could only assume that the amulet was hidden inside. “You never told me, before.”

“Oh, ah,” Aziraphale said. “It…um…traps demons.”

Crowley paused in his circumnavigation of the sarcophagus, finger pausing where it had been drawing a small furrow in the thin layer of dust that coated the lid of the sarcophagus. “It _what?”_

“Well,” Aziraphale said, looking distressed, “strictly speaking all it does is hold the _soul_ of a demon, but Heaven certainly thought it could be modified and used to _trap_ demons. Even very powerful ones, er, permanently. It renders them powerless, so it’d be very easy to just catch them and then…er…kill them.”

Crowley stared down at the lid of the sarcophagus, taking this information in. In the part of himself reliving the experiences of his three-thousand-year-old self, he realised that Aziraphale had effectively removed from the cosmic chess board a piece which would have both considerably helped Heaven and posed great personal danger to Crowley. In the part of himself standing in the present and breathing in the stale, warm air of Horemheb’s ancient tomb, he felt a giddy sense of relief.

“That’s… _great_.”

Again, Aziraphale looked surprised. “It only works on one demon at a time, but it might be useful against those demons outside…” he ventured.

“My thoughts exactly,” Crowley said brightly. “If we can separate them, we can pick them off one by one!”

Aziraphale nodded, looking relieved at how well this conversation was going.

“All right,” Crowley said, taking a step away from the sarcophagus and surveying it critically. “So it’s in here?”

Aziraphale nodded again.

Crowley dusted off his hands. “Well, let’s get it open, then.”

Crowley put his palms on the edge of the sarcophagus lid and pushed with all his might. It didn’t move.

Aziraphale joined him, but even with both of them pushing with everything they had, it didn’t even tremble.

“By _Lucifer_ , that’s heavy,” Crowley gasped as they gave up for a moment. He tried leaning against it, or pressing into it with his shoulder, but the lid remained firmly immobile.

“I was worried about that,” Aziraphale huffed, looking dismayed.

Crowley glanced at him, still sucking in deep breaths.

“I _was_ going to bring crowbars,” Aziraphale panted, expression distressed as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “So we could lever it up, but I don’t know if even that would have worked, with just the two of us.”

Crowley frowned. “ _Two of us_ …?” He put together what the angel was implying. “So you’re saying you _were_ going to wait for me? To go into the tomb, tomorrow morning?”

Aziraphale cast him a somewhat offended glance, still catching his breath. “Of course!”

Crowley let out a small laugh and leaned back against the sarcophagus. “I would have sworn you were going to sneak back in here without me.”

“I thought that was what _you_ were going to do,” Aziraphale said. “I didn’t know why you were in Luxor, and I wasn’t sure if you were after the amulet too, if Hell had somehow found out about it…”

Crowley waved away Aziraphale’s concerns, feeling oddly giddy about the whole thing.

“And I had hoped you could help me with the bloody heavy lid,” Aziraphale added, gesturing at the sarcophagus. “I knew magic wouldn’t work in here, and I spent that whole awful boat ride trying to decide which of the humans I trusted the most.”

Crowley huffed a laugh.

“But they’re all so obsessed with treasure!” Aziraphale continued. “And the bloody amulet’s made of solid gold.”

He looked so distressed that Crowley burst into another laugh. For a moment, it didn’t feel like they were trapped in a three-thousand-year-old tomb, awaiting their certain demise, and Crowley remembered all in a rush just why he had left America.

“Oh, and I _am_ sorry about lying,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at the sarcophagus, “about the amulet.”

Crowley waved away the angel’s words. “Ancient history,” he said, and then smiled at his own joke.

Aziraphale grinned back at him, but after a moment his smile slowly faded.

“If we can’t get the sarcophagus open…” Aziraphale began tentatively, “I don’t know—what else can we do?”

Crowley felt the smile slide off his own face, and he looked back at the sarcophagus behind him, fingering the edge of the beautifully carved granite.

“We could still try to pick the demons off,” he suggested, but even as he said it he knew there was little chance of it working. The demon who’d wrestled him to the ground, the one who’d called herself Ba-En-Kekon, could probably kill both of them without too much trouble. With traps and what material they could find in the tomb, they might be able to discorporate a few of the demons, but not all of them. The three they had encountered outside the tomb were more than their match, and there were at least two more of them on top of that.

Crowley remembered the promises of a lake of fire Ba-En-Kekon had breathed into his ear, and shivered a little despite himself. Aziraphale seemed to be thinking along the same lines, so Crowley turned and quickly started pushing at the lid of the sarcophagus again.

Aziraphale joined him, but no matter how many times they counted and heaved, or how hard they pushed, the lid refused to budge even a centimetre. It was just too heavy.

When they gave up a few minutes later, Crowley’s arms were shaking with exertion and the air seemed thinner. He gulped in deep breaths, head spinning slightly. Aziraphale was standing not far away, hands on his knees, looking similarly winded.

“What was that about us…dying of dehydration?”

Aziraphale took a moment to reply, and when he did his breaths were laboured. “I may have…miscalculated. The air does seem a lot…thinner down here.”

Crowley nodded and sank into a sitting position next to the tomb, tilting his head back and resting it against the cool stone side of the sarcophagus.

“I don’t think that lid is ever going to move,” he admitted.

Aziraphale came and sat down next to him. “I don’t think so either.”

Crowley gazed at the stairs before them, leading up to the pillared hall. “What about the warding?” he asked after a moment. “Can you remove it? Chisel the marks off?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s warded from the inside and the outside both. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a very good trap, would it?”

Crowley nodded, too light-headed to even express much disappointment over this. “Until the door is broken?” he confirmed.

Aziraphale nodded. “It’s the weakest part of the warding. Theoretically we could break it from the inside just as well as they could from the outside, but…” He trailed off.

Crowley tilted his head towards Aziraphale. “What?”

Aziraphale made a face. “If we can’t open the sarcophagus, I doubt we could break the door.”

Crowley grunted.

“When the demons come in here, they’ll be powerless too, right?” Crowley asked at length.

Again, Aziraphale nodded. “But to be honest, I think that demon who was fighting me before wasn’t even using magic.” He touched his lip, which was beginning to swell.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, remembering Ba-En-Kekon grimly.

They continued to catch their breaths, and for the first time the seriousness of the situation started to settle in. They were trapped. The amulet had been their only real hope, but even this close they couldn’t quite reach it.

They were both quiet for so long that Crowley could almost imagine they’d already been killed. He swallowed heavily.

After a long moment more, he tilted his head towards Aziraphale.

“You would have liked America,” he said, voice sounding oddly quiet in the space.

He felt more than saw Aziraphale turn his head towards him slightly. “Don’t, Crowley, please.”

Crowley fell silent, grappling with himself over whether or not to confess to Aziraphale that, when he’d left for New York City, he’d been hoping Aziraphale would accompany him. He’d tried dropping hints, but the angel had been acting oddly and had been ever since Crowley had woken from his nap. America had been interesting on its own, of course…but he was finding that the greater part of the pleasure of the world was to be had in sharing it with Aziraphale.

Crowley opened his mouth, struggling to form that sentiment into something oblique, but even as he did so Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet.

“I’m going to look around,” the angel muttered, and started off across the uneven sea of debris towards a small doorway near the back of the sarcophagus area.

Crowley let him go, and a moment later stood up himself and started walking around the room. While Aziraphale kicked his way through the debris, Crowley stood still, gazing at the relief on the wall behind the sarcophagus. Despite the rather poor light shed by the torch, Crowley could tell that it had never been painted, the precise chisel marks of the artist still visible in the stone.

The scene showed Osiris seated in profile on a raised dais, a procession of nine smaller figures walking up a flight of stairs towards him. At Osiris’ feet sat a set of balancing scales, the fulcrum resting on the shoulder of Thoth in the form of a mummy. It was a familiar scene, and one Crowley had seen in paint and ink at least a thousand times over the years.

Some time later, Aziraphale picked his way back across the rubble to Crowley, who turned at his approach. “Find anything?”

“A statue of a god. Osiris, I think,” Aziraphale said. “I guess the robbers missed it. And there are a couple of skeletons over there.” He gestured vaguely behind himself.

Crowley grimaced and nodded.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Crowley, about all of this. I really am. This had nothing—”

Crowley was already waving away Aziraphale’s words. “It was my choice to come,” he reminded the angel. “I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.”

Again, Crowley’s response seemed to surprise Aziraphale, and the angel fiddled nervously with the edge of his shirt sleeve. Finally, he said, “Thank you.”

Crowley nodded, and they lapsed into another silence. Behind them, the torch flickered loudly in the quiet, devouring what little oxygen they had.

“There’s a place that opened a few years ago near Green Park,” Aziraphale said at length, staring at his hands. “It’s one of the Ritz-Carlton hotels, and it’s supposed to have amazing food.”

Crowley nodded, feeling his throat tighten.

Aziraphale moved his gaze up, looking blankly at the wall with the relief. “I would have liked to go someday.” It was a statement: nothing more, nothing less.

Crowley nodded again, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything else. He went back to looking down at his hands.

“I’m never going to find out who won the Great Race,” Crowley realised wistfully. “It ends in Paris, you know. I thought we could go, and I could teach you about motor cars…they’re really quite cool. I think they’re the future.”

Aziraphale nodded, and again they fell silent. It felt like they’d just given their deathbed confessions.

Crowley looked at his shoes, and at length Aziraphale walked over to examine one of the other walls. This one was covered in columns of hieroglyphic text, faint but still legible after all these years.

“Maybe I can weaken the anti-magic warding,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t sound very certain about it. “I remember hiding some of the glyphs over here…somewhere…”

He started looking through the hieroglyphics, but given the flexibility of the writing system Crowley imagined he’d be at it for a while. And, considering Aziraphale’s skill in spellwork, he doubted a little meddling with a few glyphs was going to change their prospects much.

Crowley sat down next to the sarcophagus, leaning his back against its side and staring at the unpainted relief opposite him. It was only a matter of time, really.

Even though the other demons would be unable to use magic against them while in the tomb, he didn’t like the odds of five—or possibly even more—against two. They would fight, of course, but…Crowley prided himself on being able to see ways out of tight spots. He was alive because of it. He couldn’t see a way out of this.

The tunnel leading down to the pillared hall was too narrow and steep to be able to dash past their attackers as they descended. The chasm room might provide good cover for an ambush, but even if they somehow lured the demons into a trap or managed to get out ahead of them, they wouldn’t get far before they were caught. Even with a good head start, the fact remained that Ba-En-Kekon had recognised Crowley as the Serpent of Eden—they knew who he was, and with that information he would be easy to track, particularly if any of them had connections in Below’s field agent office.

Crowley remembered Ba-En-Kekon’s words and forced down a shiver. It was clear that these demons had some sort of Egypt fetish, and Crowley had been earmarked to play the part of the damned soul passing through the Egyptian underworld. He reflected grimly on the irony—it was clear they didn’t understand the Egyptian religion very well at all—and felt his hopes sink even lower.

Hell had plenty of lakes of fire, and he doubted Ba-En-Kekon would have any trouble making good on her other promise either, the one about tearing his heart out.

Crowley swallowed heavily. He’d been on the receiving end of Beelzebub’s displeasure a couple of times, but he’d never been _actually_ , properly tortured. He’d seen it happen to others, of course, far more than he ever wanted to remember.

His gaze moved worriedly to where Aziraphale was still squinting at the wall, one hand tracing a line of hieroglyphs.

An angel in Hell would not go unnoticed for long. Ba-En-Kekon and the others would certainly do their best to torture the two of them privately, but he didn’t think they’d be able to hide Aziraphale’s presence from the rest of Hell for more than a few days at the most.

Someone bigger and meaner would come along sooner or later and steal Aziraphale out from under the other demons’ noses. Whoever it was would probably leave Crowley in their clutches, because no one in Hell cared what happened to him, but they’d drag Aziraphale down to the inner circles.

Crowley’s mind began to run through all the facts and rumours he’d ever heard about the inner circles, and this time he couldn’t prevent himself from shivering.

He was still looking over at Aziraphale, and he felt his heart constrict in fear. No matter what happened next, he knew suddenly, he would do his utmost to keep Aziraphale out of Hell’s hands.

Crowley turned his mind back to the matter of how to escape, hoping his desperation would unearth some new idea. He came up cold again. From what he’d seen on the way down, there weren’t a lot of good places to hide in the tomb, and if they held their ground and fought they didn’t even have a decent weapon between them—

Crowley paused as he realised that that wasn’t quite true. He reached to his belt and drew the dagger he had wrested from Ba-En-Kekon earlier. It was perfectly symmetrical and actually quite beautiful, with a smooth grip inlaid with precious stones and a crescent-shaped pommel made of gold. He turned it over in his hands, the torchlight gleaming off the polished, double-edged bronze blade.

So they had _one_ decent weapon between them, but fat lot of good it was going to do against five demons—

Crowley paused. He looked down at the dagger in his hands, the torchlight flickering across its polished surface. He looked back at Aziraphale and felt his mouth go dry.

“Uh, Aziraphale,” he called, and cleared his throat.

“Hmm?”

Crowley returned his eyes to the dagger’s blade and shifted position until it was out of Aziraphale’s line of sight. “This magic-proofing,” Crowley said, praying that his voice wouldn’t betray him, “how does it work, _exactly?”_

“It prevents the casting or using of magic,” Aziraphale said, still running his fingers down the columns of hieroglyphics.

“So we still _have_ our powers, we just can’t _use_ them?” Crowley clarified. “It doesn’t…” His voice faltered slightly. “…make us mortal or anything, does it?”

“Nah,” Aziraphale said without turning around. “Too complicated. I didn’t have a lot of time when I was making the warding.”

Crowley nodded slowly. He turned his gaze back to the dagger in his hand and gently ran his thumb over its edge, a tight feeling settling into the bottom of his stomach. There was one way out of this tomb he could think of, but only for Aziraphale.

He took a deep breath and tilted the back of his head against the cool side of the sarcophagus, loathe to carry out his plan just yet. Maybe, if he gave it a moment, some better way would present itself.

Crowley gazed at the relief across from him, where Osiris was sitting at his scales, the nine figures standing before him on the steps. Its presence here seemed awfully fitting.

Crowley took another deep, steadying breath, the hot, thinning air seeming to stick in his lungs. “Hey, Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what this relief is showing?”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder and Crowley nodded at the relief across from him. Aziraphale shrugged. “You know I didn’t study their religion.”

“It’s the weighing of the heart in the _Book of the Gates_ ,” Crowley said. “Like the _Book of the Dead_.” He hesitated for a moment, deliberating on how best to continue. “Do you know what the Egyptians believed happened to a soul after it died?”

“No.”

Crowley gazed at the unpainted grooves of the relief, recalling a story he hadn’t dwelled on in centuries. “They believed that your soul waited with all the other souls that had died that day. You wait until the sun sets, and then Amun-Ra appears in a great boat to ferry you to the underworld.” Crowley took a slow breath, remembering the next step in the half-forgotten tale. “It’s called the Boat of a Million Years, and it sails across the sky holding the sun. It stops to pick up all the souls that died that day, and as long as you were properly buried you get a ticket onto the boat.

“Amun-Ra and his god friends sail over the horizon with the souls of that day’s dead, and as they dip below the horizon they enter the underworld. They pass through a series of gates, each one guarded by a serpent.” Crowley smiled faintly. “Did I ever tell you what I liked most about the Egyptian religion, angel?”

“Something about serpent worship?”

Crowley chuckled a little. “Not quite.” He felt the smile fade from his face as quickly as it had come. He took a moment before responding. “In Heaven,” he said at last, “as far as I could tell, I was the only angel with an animal form. Just me. I never knew why. And I was a serpent, the only one until Eden.” Crowley ran his thumb over the inlaid haft of the dagger. “There was no one else like me, not even a little. What the Egyptians believed…” Crowley kept his eyes downcast. “There were so many serpents. They guard the gates, they sing hymns, they help guide the boat…for a while I wondered if I really had been created in the wrong religion.”

He felt rather than saw Aziraphale look over at him.

“And seeing how much I messed up this one…it seemed almost plausible, for a while. That maybe, there was some other place I belonged in…”

“Crowley, you were as much an angel as the rest of us,” Aziraphale said firmly, though Crowley reflected that Aziraphale hadn’t known him before the Fall. “You belong here, in this world.” Aziraphale sounded like he was about to say something else, but nothing more was forthcoming.

“Yeah,” Crowley said at last.

“I—for what it’s worth,” Aziraphale said, “I’m glad you’re not guarding some gate.”

Crowley glanced over at his friend, who was beginning to turn a little pink. “Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

“And not just because I’ve got something against guarding gates,” Aziraphale added hastily. “Though it _is_ a terribly boring job.”

“I suppose you’d know,” Crowley said with a lightness he didn’t feel.

Aziraphale looked a little abashed.

After a long moment, Crowley felt his spirits sink again and he returned reluctantly to his narrative. He took a deep breath before continuing, the air unpleasantly warm and stale. “So the human souls sail with Amun-Ra through the underworld, and they pass through a gate for every hour of the night. Then, at midnight, the souls are judged by Osiris…” Crowley gazed at the pair of scales carved into the relief. “Your heart is weighed against a feather, and if it’s lighter you get to go to the Egyptian paradise. And if it’s heavier…”

Crowley nervously fingered the edge of the dagger. “The damned are devoured by monsters. Right there. There are some other tests, and if at some point you don’t pass, or if you were a truly awful person or a heretic or something, there’s more of the usual: lakes of liquid fire, pits of boiling water…”

He took a deep breath. “But while all of this is happening Amun-Ra keeps sailing by in his boat. And when it rises above the horizon, in that singular blaze of glory as the sun breaks over the mountains…”

Crowley swallowed. “As the sun rises, the souls of the damned are destroyed. Wiped from existence forever. Even the worst among them: the liars, the cheats, the heretics and traitors…they are only tortured from midnight to sunrise. And then they’re just…gone.”

Crowley looked at the floor. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him. “There are souls in Hell that have been there for millennia,” he said. “Cain is still there. He’s been—” Crowley had to take a deep breath before he could continue, “—he’s been screaming for nearly six millennia now, did you know that? All the damned, even the ones who didn’t do anything particularly horrible…God, Aziraphale, there are so many screams.”

He bowed his head, struggling to keep his breathing under control. Aziraphale was quiet; Crowley had told him about the screams before.

He waited for Aziraphale to say something, maybe to tell him off for caring about what happened to the souls of the damned, but the angel was silent.

Crowley supposed it didn’t matter anyway. They would be dead soon, and Crowley didn’t get to choose which underworld he went to; Aziraphale had been right all those years ago. This cosmology was all they had, and before long they’d both be in the Hell Crowley had spent so much time fleeing from, damned to an eternity of unimaginable torment because that was just how the world was.

He saw Aziraphale turn back to the wall in his periphery, though they both knew it was a lost cause.

Crowley fingered the edge of the dagger in his hand. The blade was sharp. He didn’t think he could justify putting it off any longer.

He hoped Aziraphale would understand. He hoped Aziraphale would remember what he had said, and understand why he had done it. He had heard so very many screams in Hell, and he refused to let Aziraphale’s voice become one of them.

Crowley swallowed heavily and pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his grip on the dagger as he did so. He shifted it to his dominant hand and held the dagger down at his side, trailing his hand slightly behind himself so that the blade was out of sight.

He crossed to Aziraphale. When he was only a pace away, he said, voice hoarse, “Aziraphale, come look at this.”

Aziraphale turned away from the wall of hieroglyphics, a question in his eyes.

Crowley put his left hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, steadying him. “Forgive me,” he said, and plunged the dagger into Aziraphale’s chest.

The tip of the blade entered just underneath Aziraphale’s ribs, and Crowley angled it up, hoping to reach the angel’s heart in a single blow. Unfortunately, he felt the dagger skid to the left, shivering as it met resistance but sinking still deeper.

Crowley felt a shudder run through Aziraphale as the blade finally ground to a halt, only an inch of the bronze blade still visible. Aziraphale drew a sharp, surprised breath and wrapped his hands around Crowley’s forearms, automatically trying to steady himself.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, adjusting his left hand until he was bracing it firmly against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Then, in a single motion, he drew the dagger out of his friend as quickly and painlessly as he could, trying to follow the exact same path of entry even as Aziraphale’s chest heaved.

A gasp of pain left Aziraphale’s lips as Crowley yanked the dagger free with some difficulty, feeling it tear further through the angel’s abdomen as Aziraphale started to sway dangerously.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Crowley said hastily, tossing the bloodied dagger to the floor behind himself without a second thought and grabbing onto Aziraphale by the shoulders. The angel’s eyes had gone blank with shock and confusion, but his grip doubled on Crowley’s arms as he started to slouch forward, legs giving out from under him.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s weight as the angel listed further against him, beginning to slide towards the floor. One of Aziraphale’s hands left the stability of Crowley’s arms to press blindly at his stomach, where a huge red stain was already beginning to grow. Aziraphale was leaning against Crowley quite heavily now, his forehead dipping against Crowley’s shoulder and the fingers of his other hand slowly loosening their vice-grip on his arm.

“Ea—easy now,” Crowley said, throat growing tight as he lowered Aziraphale to the ground as gently as he could. He leaned Aziraphale back with the utmost care, impatiently knocking a few rocks out of the way to make a more comfortable surface. As he laid Aziraphale’s head down, the angel gasped in a ragged breath, the stuttering movement appearing incredibly painful. For a moment, the angel’s pain-muddied eyes met his, and Crowley read confusion and a wordless plea for help in them.

“I—I’m sorry,” Crowley said again, and meant it. The hand he’d had on Aziraphale’s shoulder had somehow moved to the angel’s neck, and before he knew what he was doing he was running his thumb over Aziraphale’s jawline, hating the sweaty, unnatural warmth of the angel’s skin. He could feel Aziraphale trembling beneath his hand too, the angel’s chest rising and falling with alarming speed as he tried to rasp in another sharp, staccato breath.

Crowley swallowed heavily, and when he spoke his words were faltering. “…b—but it’s the only way. You’ll just be discorporated. You’ll be safe in Heaven.” His thumb had returned to gently stroking Aziraphale’s jawline, and he didn’t have the heart to make himself stop. “The demons recognised me, but they don’t know you. They won’t be able to find you again once you’ve switched corporations.” Crowley tried for a weak smile, but it came out strained. “And it’s the only way past the warding, right?”

He watched as, slowly, full comprehension finally dawned in Aziraphale’s pain-addled, trusting eyes. It was only there for a heartbeat before it was replaced by anger and then a look of betrayal so complete that Crowley felt as though Aziraphale had struck him.

For the first time, Aziraphale tried to fight back, clamping his hand more firmly over the wound in his stomach and releasing his grip on Crowley’s arm as though he’d been burned.

“Y— _you_ —” Aziraphale’s voice was thick with accusation, but he wasn’t able to complete his thought, lapsing instead into a series of ragged, gasping half-breaths. He tried to push himself backwards along the floor, away from Crowley, but when he attempted to raise himself to his elbows all the blood drained from his face.

Aziraphale gasped in pain and Crowley quickly pushed him back to the floor before he could hurt himself any more. Aziraphale ground the back of his head against the stone floor and sucked in wet breaths, gasping like a fish out of water. Tears of pain or perhaps frustration were beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes, and he looked in that instant more helpless than Crowley had seen him in a long time.

“Shh, it—it’ll be okay, you’ll be okay,” Crowley stammered, trying to ignore the hand that Aziraphale had put on the demon’s chest. It appeared that, failing to move himself, Aziraphale was attempting to push Crowley away, but his strength was flagging so quickly that Crowley barely shifted.

“You’ll be safe,” Crowley said again, hoping desperately that Aziraphale would remember that one thing, if nothing else. “They’d—they’d tear you apart in Hell, angel.” Crowley felt his throat close, sinuses beginning to burn. “I—I won’t let that happen.”

Aziraphale rasped in another laboured breath, still trying to weakly push Crowley away from himself, but halfway through the motion his breath abruptly caught. A groan escaped Aziraphale’s lips as a convulsion gripped him, his head rolling back and chest heaving.

“Oh, f—fuck,” Crowley said in alarm, leaning further over Aziraphale anxiously as the angel’s eyes slunk shut. He adjusted his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder and tried pushing him down to keep him from lifting too far off the floor as his back arched. When the convulsion passed a moment later, Aziraphale panted and sank back down against the hard stone floor of the tomb, sweat shining on his forehead.

Crowley took a deep, shaking breath, but before he’d even finished a second convulsion was gripping Aziraphale, the shudder running through him from head to foot. This time, Crowley happened to glance down towards Aziraphale’s abdomen, and he saw fresh, dark blood seeping up between Aziraphale’s fingers with every tremor. As the second convulsion passed, Aziraphale let out a tiny involuntary whimper that made Crowley feel sick to his stomach.

 _I should have slit his throat,_ Crowley thought wretchedly as Aziraphale collapsed back to the floor beneath him, shivering and exhausted. _I should have made sure it was quicker._

Aziraphale made a desperate attempt to breathe again, and this time he was racked with a weak cough as blood bubbled up from between his lips.

“G—God, Aziraphale, I’m sorry,” Crowley stammered, voice thick as he carefully tilted Aziraphale’s head to the side and wiped the blood from his friend’s lips with the end of his sleeve. Aziraphale wheezed brokenly as Crowley’s gaze moved back down to where Aziraphale was doing his best to staunch the bleeding on his own, hand and chest already soaked with blood, more running down his sides to pool on the floor.

He looked to be doing a little too good of a job of it, so Crowley reached down, grabbed Aziraphale’s blood-slicked hand, and pinned it to the floor next to Aziraphale’s head. The angel tried to tear his hand free, trembling like a leaf caught in a gale, but Crowley easily overpowered him, feeling awful even as he did so.

 _The faster he bleeds out, the better_ , Crowley decided, but even in his mind the thought was unsteady.

Aziraphale tried to worm his way out from under Crowley again, but the motion only wrenched wet gasping noises from him. Alarmed, Crowley moved his other hand to pin Aziraphale down by the chest. Unfortunately, his hand landed too low, and as he applied pressure the angel let out a weak whimper, eyes going out of focus for a moment. Crowley immediately snatched his hand back, but not before his palm had grown slick and sticky, Aziraphale’s blood warm and thick as it clung to his fingers.

Crowley unthinkingly wiped his hand off on his own shirt and moved it back up to Aziraphale’s shoulder. Under his other hand, Aziraphale was still struggling ineffectually to free his wrist from the grip of his murderer.

Aziraphale’s breathing was growing even more laboured, and when another convulsion racked his body it was weaker, the spasm barely tilting his head back against the stone floor.

It wouldn’t be long now. Crowley had been hoping to dispatch Aziraphale as quickly and painlessly as possible, but now, even with Aziraphale wheezing in pain and struggling to keep his eyes open, Crowley found himself suddenly hoping Aziraphale would stay with him just a little bit longer.

It was then that Crowley came to the abrupt realisation that, if he wasn’t able to get away from Ba-En-Kekon and the others on his own, this could very well be the last time he ever saw Aziraphale.

Crowley’s throat closed completely, and he felt his grip on Aziraphale’s struggling wrist tighten. He gazed down at the angel and opened his mouth, suddenly needing in this most inopportune moment to convey to Aziraphale everything he had felt over the last six thousand years, needing to convey his _gratitude_.

Crowley found that the hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder had moved to the side of his friend’s face, cupping his cheek even as the angel convulsed again and coughed up more blood, the red streaks standing out starkly against his chalky skin.

“G—Good-bye,” Crowley stammered, feeling the burning in his sinuses increase as he gently wiped away the streaks of blood from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “I—I really—it was really nice knowing you.” His throat closed again, and he watched Aziraphale struggle back to consciousness, the effort making him whiten even further, breaths clogged and whole body shivering with exertion.

“N—no,” Aziraphale groaned, or something like it, struggling to take a deeper breath. His wrist pressed weakly but with renewed vigour against the hand Crowley was pinning it to the floor with, but Aziraphale’s strength was all but spent and this small effort seemed to exhaust him completely. He collapsed back against the floor after only a few seconds, eyes beginning to slide out of focus as his chest trembled.

Crowley felt wetness beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes as his hand unconsciously caressed Aziraphale’s cheek. “I r—really, honestly enjoyed it all,” he said, voice choked. He swallowed, tasting salt. “I—I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Crowley tried to say something else, but his throat was clogged and Aziraphale’s eyelids were already beginning to slink closed. The angel was barely breathing now, and his convulsions had finally stilled, leaving him looking empty and spent.

As Aziraphale faded away, Crowley ducked his head, his tears catching in his lashes. Aziraphale’s faint wheezes slowly trailed off, and then his wrist grew still under Crowley’s hand.

Crowley felt himself start shaking, gulping in deep breaths as he let the tears overcome him.

It was the first time he’d discorporated Aziraphale in a thousand years.

Crowley’s trembling hand relinquished Aziraphale’s slack wrist, and when he dragged his head back up his eyes latched onto the still form of Aziraphale’s face. Crowley shakily pulled his other hand away from Aziraphale’s cheek, leaving a sticky red handprint on the side of his friend’s face, more blood smeared in his hair. There was a lock out of place on Aziraphale’s forehead, and Crowley carefully brushed it back into its proper spot with the tip of a trembling finger.

After a painful moment, Crowley leaned over and very gently planted a kiss right in the middle of Aziraphale’s forehead. The angel’s skin was cool and sweaty under his lips, but Crowley held the contact for a long moment, funnelling every scrap of goodwill he had ever borne the angel into the gesture, every wish for a trouble-free life for Aziraphale, without him.

And then he sat back on his haunches, blood dripping off his shaking fingertips, and waited.


	11. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat graphic illustration below.

**The Tomb of Horemheb, the Valley of the Kings**

February 24th, 1908

 

Aziraphale had done a good job on the warding.

A little too good of a job, actually.

Aziraphale looked around himself in confusion. He could still taste the blood on his lips, still feel the racking pain of the mortal blow Crowley had dealt him, but the physical sensations were fading quickly.

Of more concern was the fact that, though he had felt himself leave his corporation, he wasn’t currently surrounded by the light of Heaven. In fact, it didn’t look like he’d moved much of anywhere.

Aziraphale looked down and froze in confusion when he saw his own motionless body stretched out on the floor beneath him, Crowley sitting by its side.

Aziraphale glanced over himself next, and nearly jumped when, where his body should have been, he saw only a ghostly, indistinct blue-white swirl of what looked like smoke. Even as he watched, the swirl eerily adjusted its shape, drawing out four limbs and slowly refining the level of detail. After a few seconds, it had rearranged itself into a passable facsimile of his most recent corporation. Aziraphale flexed semi-transparent, blue-white hands in front of his face, feeling more confused than ever. And as if that wasn’t perplexing enough, he also appeared to be floating near the ceiling, feet dangling some distance above the floor. When he twisted his head to glance over his shoulder, looking for his method of suspension, he saw that his wings had manifested as ghostly apparitions as well, ethereal feathers sparkling uncannily at him in the dim light. They weren’t beating, though; on the contrary, he was floating seemingly of his own volition, like a balloon seeking higher ground.

Aziraphale craned his head back next, looking at the flat stone ceiling only an inch above him, and all in a rush he realised what must have happened.

Stunned, he looked back down at where Crowley was sitting next to Aziraphale’s abandoned corporation, head bowed. Crowley had clearly succeeded in discorporating him, but Aziraphale’s magic-proof warding must be preventing his soul from being whisked away to Heaven, as it should have been the moment he departed his corporation. In other words, he was just as trapped as he’d been when he was still breathing.

Aziraphale continued staring down at where Crowley sat with bowed head, shoulders quivering slightly, and felt a sudden surge of anger.

“How _dare_ you,” Aziraphale hissed, but though his voice was audible Crowley didn’t appear to hear him. “What gives you the _right?_ And you—I’m surprised you even bothered to look me in the eyes when you did it, you…you…back-stabbing, treacherous, no-good, awful _serpent_.” Aziraphale’s tone was harsh, but even as he spat the words he knew that his anger wasn’t because Crowley had discorporated him.

It was because, in the process of discorporating and thus saving Aziraphale, Crowley had damned _himself_.

“We could have fought them together,” Aziraphale growled, folding his shimmering arms. “We could have found another way to open the sarcophagus, or break the warding. There was a—a—a _bloody good_ chance we could have both got away, but _nooo_ , you had to go and be a—a _blooming great_ _idiot_ and—and…”

Aziraphale trailed off as, beneath him, Crowley sat back and wiped uncoordinatedly at his cheeks with the back of his forearm. He scooted backwards a little ways, putting some space between himself and Aziraphale’s motionless, blood-soaked form.

“I would have protected you,” Aziraphale said wretchedly, voice softer, but he knew that that wasn’t quite the heart of the matter either. Crowley had often told him about the horrors of Hell, usually when he was too drunk or reflective to consider the wisdom of telling something like that to an angel, and he knew that he would not have enjoyed becoming its newest resident. Aziraphale liked to think that things wouldn’t have got that far, and that he would have executed a heroic escape from the tomb and delivered both of them from the hands of the demons, but… Well, when it came right down to it, Crowley’s evaluation was the more expert one, and given Aziraphale’s recent firsthand experiences he couldn’t help but agree.

But by far the worst part of this whole awful situation was that, somewhere very deep down in the part of Aziraphale not currently simmering with resentment at Crowley for making his choices for him, he was deeply and utterly _relieved_. Crowley had taken it upon himself to spare Aziraphale from what was certainly a terrible fate, but the price had been far too high. Together, they’d barely stood a chance of escaping, but at least it had been _a_ chance; on his own, the odds were stacked too high against Crowley. And, from the choked good-bye Crowley had given Aziraphale as the angel had felt his life slipping away through his fingers, Crowley had seemed to know that.

“Bloody demon,” Aziraphale growled, upset all over again but for very different reasons, chest tightening.

Below him, Crowley sniffled and pawed at his cheeks with the back of a bloodstained hand.

 

[[tumblr](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/174498251588/the-tomb-of-horemheb-from-my-good-omens-fic-the)] 

Aziraphale continued gazing down at the demon, and the longer he did so the more he felt his anger wane. Despite the fact that Crowley had recently driven a dagger into his chest, Crowley was still his _friend_ , and he wanted to make sure that he was okay. Aziraphale gave a few experimental beats of his semi-transparent wings and succeeded in bobbing downwards, towards the floor of the tomb.

As the soles of Aziraphale’s blue-white shoes approached the rubble-strewn ground, he saw with some concern that Crowley did not appear to be doing very well at all. He was crying quite profusely, his entire body shaking with tiny, uncontrollable tremors. He’d clasped his hands together to try and stop the motion, but it didn’t seem to be helping much. His fingers were coated with Aziraphale’s blood, and more reached up his forearms in uneven splotches almost to his elbows. There were a few small scarlet smears on his face too, where it looked like he’d been wiping away his tears.

Aziraphale drew a deep, worried breath as Crowley took a choked one of his own. He rarely saw Crowley cry, and he wondered uneasily if the demon was only allowing himself to do so now because he thought he was alone. The thought gave Aziraphale pause, and he hovered anxiously nearby, beating his wings every few seconds to keep himself from floating back up towards the ceiling.

Then, as he watched, Crowley sniffled loudly and moved his red-rimmed, serpentine eyes so that he was looking over at Aziraphale’s abandoned corporation.

For a long moment he just sat there, gazing wretchedly at Aziraphale’s body, and then he took a deep breath and lurched into motion. He crawled gracelessly over to Aziraphale’s side and came to another halt, this time gazing down at the motionless face of his departed friend. Aziraphale floated after Crowley and frowned down at him, wondering a bit nervously what he was going to do.

After nearly a minute had passed, Crowley’s gaze left Aziraphale’s face and dropped to his own bloodstained hands. He took another deep, fortifying breath and set about wiping them down on his trousers, not stopping until his palms were clean. When he was ready, he leaned over and gently closed Aziraphale’s eyes.

And then, steadying Aziraphale’s head with one hand, he starting wiping the blood off the angel’s face with his thumb.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise, taken aback. Crowley continued wiping the blood from Aziraphale’s motionless face, rubbing it off his fingers onto his trouser legs and returning with a clean hand. When he reached areas where the blood on Aziraphale’s face had already started to dry and didn’t come away easily, Crowley added moisture by licking his finger or brushing a few tears from his slick cheeks. He must have been able to taste Aziraphale’s blood when he did the former, but his pace never faltered.

Crowley was slow and methodical, every swipe of his thumb deliberate and systematic. The motions also appeared incredibly gentle, and Aziraphale felt his own, half-imagined eyes begin to burn slightly. Had he harboured any notions that Crowley had enjoyed discorporating him, they would have evaporated now.

When Aziraphale’s face was clean, skin ashen but unblemished, Crowley moved onto rubbing the worst of the blood out of Aziraphale’s hair. He seemed to recognise that it was a lost cause, though, because after a few minutes he gave up and just combed it into place with his own bloodstained fingers.

Watching Crowley carry out the strangely tender procedure, Aziraphale felt an odd mix of sorrow and gratitude. He wanted to tell Crowley that he didn’t have to do this, even if Crowley couldn’t hear him, but Crowley’s hand never wavered, and the idea of breaking the silence seemed almost blasphemous.

So Aziraphale kept quiet as Crowley straightened his corporation’s collar and moved onto wiping the blood from the backs of Aziraphale’s hands, pulling them into his lap one at a time to reach them better. When that was complete, he folded Aziraphale’s hands directly over the fatal wound in his abdomen, leaving them clasped lightly in the centre of the dark stain that had spread across his chest.

Lastly, Crowley shuffled over and straightened Aziraphale’s legs until his heels were together, so that he was arranged in perfect symmetry.

When he had finished, Crowley stood back and surveyed his work. Aziraphale did too, feeling profoundly moved. Though Crowley must have known that Aziraphale would almost certainly never see this corporation again, and that he didn’t care much what happened to it anyway, he had still taken the time to give his body a final sense of dignity. In fact, Aziraphale doubted his body now looked very different than that of the much-beloved pharaoh entombed in the beautiful sarcophagus only a metre away.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “It looks great.”

Crowley stood over Aziraphale’s motionless body for a few moments longer, visibly trying to pull himself together, and then he strode around the sarcophagus until he was facing the short flight of stairs leading up to the pillared hall. He sat down and leaned back against the sarcophagus’s side, drawing his knees partway up to his chest.

Crowley took a very deep breath and exhaled shakily, the noise sounding far too loud in the stillness of the tomb. He fixed his eyes on the pillared hall, beyond which lay the tunnel leading up to the tomb’s entrance, and for a moment his guard dropped entirely.

And, as Aziraphale gazed worriedly at his friend, he realised for the first time that Crowley was truly and properly terrified.

No sooner had Aziraphale reached this somewhat startling conclusion than Crowley took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, the backs of which were still bloodstained.

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to clean them off in the same way he had Aziraphale’s body, but after a moment he realised that Crowley was just watching the way they trembled. When they continued to shake, Crowley shoved his hands between his knees and glanced at the torch, still smouldering in the makeshift sconce but burning lower. It would go out soon, either when it finally extinguished its fuel or when it used up all the remaining oxygen.

Crowley took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and grew very still.

Aziraphale looked at his friend in concern, but Crowley didn’t move, eyes still closed. After a few long moments, he realised that Crowley was steadying his breaths. Once he had mastered that, he made a visible effort to stop the tears still streaming down his cheeks, until he blindly wiped away the last few and his cheeks remained dry. All emotion began to systematically erase itself from Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale realised with mounting horror that Crowley was preparing himself for his impending death.

Aziraphale felt a flash of anger at the demons who had put Crowley in this position, coupled with the sudden intense need to do something, _anything_ to help his friend. Had he been immediately whisked away to Heaven, he knew he’d already be demanding to be given a new corporation so he could return to the Earth and rescue Crowley. But instead he was trapped here, just as powerless as he had been while incorporated and still utterly incapable of helping Crowley in any material way.

It was incredibly frustrating, but there was virtually nothing he _could_ do, short of trying to float out of the tomb so he could get back to Heaven all the sooner to claim another corporation. But he knew that, even if he could find a crack in the warding, he wouldn’t be able to get back to Earth before the demons reached Crowley, and there was no way in Heaven, Hell, or anywhere else that he was going to leave Crowley here in the meantime to die on his own.

In front of him, Crowley finished erasing the last traces of grief and fear from his face. After a long moment, his features settled into an expression of acceptance and utter indifference, the redness of his nose the only indication that he had been crying just minutes before.

The noncommittal expression solidified on Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale felt the dregs of his frustration leave him as he realised something even worse: he _recognised_ that expression. Aziraphale had seen it quite often over the years, though he had always assumed—quite naïvely, he now saw—that it had been at least partially genuine. Sure, sometimes he had suspected that the countenance was one Crowley adopted when he was annoyed with Aziraphale and wanted to end the conversation, but he had never once considered that it might be _entirely_ a fabrication, a facade employed to hide something else he was internalising.

But watching how the expression stole over Crowley’s features now, and the way Crowley expertly tweaked it to remove the last vestiges of pain and fear from his face…

 _Where did he even learn something like that?_ Aziraphale thought harshly to himself, but a quick survey of the last six thousand years presented a likely enough candidate.

Aziraphale felt his heart sink even lower as he remembered the very poor way he had treated Crowley back when they had been first starting out. It had taken him a long time to accept Crowley as anything approaching an equal, and longer still to consider him a friend. Heaven’s propaganda machine had been in full swing in those days, and Aziraphale had been slow to accept that just because Heaven said something didn’t mean it was true. But even in the intervening years, it had been more convenient to believe that Crowley just didn’t _have_ feelings than to recognise that Aziraphale made a habit of trampling all over them.

It was a miracle that Crowley was even still talking to him after all of that, that Crowley would still do something so foolish as to discorporate him…

Aziraphale had never felt quite so much that he had never deserved a friend like Crowley.

He was still grappling with this unpleasant realisation when Crowley blinked open his eyes, looking completely calm and collected.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale told Crowley all in a rush, even though he knew the demon couldn’t hear him. “I’m sorry I’ve been a rotten friend and that I’ve been trying to shut you out, I’m sorry that I thought you only wanted to talk to me to distract me, and I’m sorry that I dragged you into this in the first place…”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “But I’ll get you out of this, I swear. If I have to go down to Hell and drag you out of a lake of fire myself, I will. Whatever it takes. I won’t leave you down there.”

Though he knew it was no comfort to Crowley, the oath had a strangely calming effect on Aziraphale, and he repeated it again, aloud, swearing it to Crowley with as much strength of will as he could muster, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to back out later. He knew he had a bad habit of looking out for himself before others, but Crowley _deserved_ Aziraphale’s loyalty, for this day’s actions alone. He had saved Aziraphale’s life, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to let him suffer because of it.

Once Aziraphale was satisfied that he would be able to put things right, regardless of whatever happened next, he felt marginally better and settled into a comfortable hovering position not far from Crowley so he could wait with him.

Every now and then, Crowley would shiver or cast Aziraphale’s body a sidelong glance, and for a moment emotion would flicker across his face, but then it would vanish the next second, leaving him looking calm and confident. It was a very good charade, perfected by far too many centuries of practice.

They waited there for a long time, the torch flickering even lower and Crowley making a visible effort to breathe less. Aziraphale’s wings grew tired of having to consistently stroke through the air to keep him near the ground, but he refused to let himself float back up to the ceiling and leave Crowley alone with his corpse.

After what must have been hours, Aziraphale heard a very faint noise. He thought he’d imagined it at first, but when he glanced over at Crowley, he could tell that he’d heard it too.

The sound came again a heartbeat later, followed by a very faint clatter. The noises continued, steadily growing in volume but punctuated by short silences, until the torch suddenly flared higher, eagerly licking up what little fuel it still had. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley again and watched the demon draw a deeper breath, a fleeting expression somewhere between relief and fear crossing his face.

The noises grew louder, and when Aziraphale could hear distant, snarling voices, Crowley carefully stood up and dusted himself off. He looked down at his bloodstained hands with that same calm, detached expression, and then walked over to where the dagger he’d killed Aziraphale with was still lying on the floor nearby.

He scooped it up and wiped it down on his shirt, expression blank. Once the blade was clean, he strode up the stairs and into the pillared hall, Aziraphale floating worriedly after him. Crowley crossed to the opposite side of the hall and came to a halt behind the first pillar on the right, the closest available cover to the debris-swamped entrance the demons would come through. The sound of clattering and voices grew steadily louder as Crowley stepped out of sight behind the pillar and adjusted the dagger so he was holding it at the ready in front his chest.

Aziraphale came to a halt near his friend, hovering a foot or so off the floor, the stiffness in his wings forgotten. “I’ll come for you,” Aziraphale reminded Crowley, dreading what he was about to witness. “I—I won’t let them have you for long. I swear it on my life.”

Crowley remained motionless as the first few rocks started to tumble down the pile of debris half-blocking the door to the hall.

“Come out, little demon!” called a sing-song voice from the next room, the one with the blue-painted reliefs. A moment later, a dark shape appeared in the narrow gap between the top of the debris pile and the underside of the doorframe’s lintel. Whoever it was wriggled through the space and clumsily straightened up on the other side. As they started down the slope, Aziraphale recognised the demon from their scuffle outside; this was the low-ranking, scrawny fellow who’d stood around and cheered the bigger one on as he’d knocked Aziraphale around.

“Here comes the small one,” Aziraphale reported to Crowley even though he knew his friend couldn’t hear him.

Crowley remained perfectly still behind the pillar, tightening his grip on the dagger in his hand. When the demon wandered past him a moment later, eyes fixed on the sarcophagus and torch ahead, Crowley threw himself out from behind the pillar and tackled him with what looked like all of his strength. They landed heavily about a pace away, the pathetic-looking demon letting out a frightened shriek as he hit the ground.

Crowley immediately pressed his advantage, angling the tip of the dagger towards his opponent’s throat and trying to pin him down long enough to strike. The demon looked exceptionally slippery, though, and he squirmed to the side just far enough to dodge the tip of the blade as it plunged downwards. The edge still sliced into the side of his neck, however, drawing blood as its victim tried to squirm away.

“Help me!” he wailed, narrowly dodging another strike of the dagger as Crowley struggled to pin down his squirming form. “Ba-En-Kekon!”

A clatter of rocks brought Aziraphale’s head around, and he saw that the female demon Crowley had been fighting with outside had emerged next from the rubble-filled doorway. She was approaching them now, boots tapping quietly against the stone floor and an all-too-pleased grin on her face.

“She’s got a dagger,” Aziraphale warned ineffectually as she drew a blade identical to the one in Crowley’s hand from her belt.

Luckily, Crowley must have heard her approach as well, because he scrambled to his feet, letting the demon under him squirm away as he did so. Before the scrawny demon could bolt, however, Crowley pushed past him, taking a vicious swipe at him as he did so. Again, he only barely drew blood, but the manoeuvre succeeded in putting the smaller demon between himself and Ba-En-Kekon.

Crowley ducked behind one of the pillars as there came a tremendous crash of stone from behind Aziraphale. Though he was floating, Aziraphale jumped, and once he’d caught himself he looked over his shoulder. The big demon who’d attacked him earlier was ploughing his way through the mountain of stone debris blocking the doorway as though it was no more substantial than feathers.

Once he had cleared the way, the big demon—Aziraphale vaguely recalled the pathetic-looking demon calling him Uvall when they’d been outside earlier—moved aside to make way for the much smaller figure of a young man.

Aziraphale stared at him for a few moments, taken aback. Though he knew this demon was just as powerless in the warded tomb as anyone else, the slowness of his pace, the unruffled expression on his face, and the way he held his chin up betrayed that he was used to wielding a great deal of power and respect. He was also dressed entirely in modern knockoffs of ancient Egyptian clothing, right down to the cheap sandals, though a great deal of the gold jewellery adorning his lithe frame looked genuine.

A few disjointed clatters sounded from behind Aziraphale, and he turned in concern to see Crowley still ducking around the pillars, hurling broken pieces of rock at Ba-En-Kekon as she pursued him ruthlessly.

He didn’t stand a chance.

Aziraphale didn’t want to watch what would certainly happen next, but there was no way he was going to leave Crowley now, so he beat his wings and floated closer to where his friend was doing his best to defend himself with anything to hand. Ba-En-Kekon was stalking closer with alarming speed, though, easily dodging or catching the rocks Crowley hurled her way.

Crowley kept scrambling backwards, trying to loop around the pillars so he wouldn’t be cornered, but Ba-En-Kekon kept cutting him off, forcing him to retreat further and further. He was very near now to where the platform dropped off into the sunken sarcophagus area, a drop of about a metre.

Crowley was doing his best to skirt the edge, but then the back of his heel caught on one of the larger rocks and he staggered to catch himself. Ba-En-Kekon pounced immediately, lunging across the space between them and tackling Crowley around the middle with a victorious cry.

Together, they sailed off the edge of the platform and down into the sunken sarcophagus area. They hit the floor with a painful-sounding thump and a clatter.

“Get him!” the scrawny demon cried as he ran to the edge, one hand clamped over the side of his neck where Crowley had drawn blood. “Tear his heart out!”

Aziraphale hastened over as quickly as his misty wings would carry him. As he flapped his way down into the sarcophagus area, he saw Crowley flat on his back on the rough floor, looking very winded. The dagger had been knocked out of his hand and was lying about a metre away. Ba-En-Kekon was on her side nearby, but righted herself even as Aziraphale watched, throwing her dark hair over her shoulder and adjusting the grip on her dagger.

“Watch out!” Aziraphale cried uselessly as Ba-En-Kekon launched herself at Crowley’s prone form.

Aziraphale prepared himself for the worst, but Crowley recovered faster than he’d thought he would, twisting so that he could meet Ba-En-Kekon with a kick. His foot contacted squarely with her diaphragm, and he propelled her away with what looked like a mighty effort. The movement also skidded Crowley back a bit further, and he made a wild lunge for his dagger, hand closing around the grip.

Aziraphale had just opened his mouth to offer Crowley a word of encouragement, oddly hopeful at this turn of events, when he saw Uvall coming down the steps to the sarcophagus area, face as expressionless as stone. Crowley, pushing himself to his feet and with his eyes trained on Ba-En-Kekon, hadn’t noticed him yet.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, lurching forward in a vain attempt to intercept the oversized demon.

Uvall reached down with a hand the size of a dinner plate and grabbed Crowley by the back of his collar, dragging him up off his feet in a single motion. And then, before Crowley even had the chance to try and free himself, Uvall drove the hand he had on Crowley’s neck downward, forcing the demon’s legs to fold and smashing the side of Crowley’s head into the edge of Horemheb’s red granite sarcophagus. All the fight went out of Crowley in an instant, and when Uvall let go of his collar he collapsed limply to the floor.

Aziraphale let out a wordless cry of anger and automatically started forward, feathers bristling.

A bright red smear of blood adorned the edge of the sarcophagus and, on the floor, a matching stain was blossoming along the right side of Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale switched his gaze from Crowley back to Uvall, a deep, proper anger flowing through him for the first time in centuries.

“How _dare_ you,” he hissed. “How _dare you?”_

“Got him,” Uvall said, voice gravelly.

Ba-En-Kekon finished picking herself up and walked over, reaching past Crowley’s motionless form to scoop up the dagger that had fallen from his limp hand. She inspected it critically and then sheathed it in her belt alongside its sister.

Uvall stepped aside as the demon in the shape of a quiet young man started down the stairs towards the sarcophagus, expression measured. He paused on the middle step and looked down his nose at Crowley’s motionless form as though he was worth no more than the broken bits of masonry he was sprawled over. Aziraphale felt his anger grow.

“Check him,” the young man said, hands folded at his navel.

Ba-En-Kekon obligingly reached down and grabbed Crowley roughly by the back of his jacket collar, dragging him a foot off the ground so she could shove her hand under his laxly hanging chin. “Pulse,” she announced, and let go.

Crowley collapsed limply back to the floor, striking his head again in the process.

Aziraphale could feel himself actually growing brighter, tapping into divine power usually beyond his reach. If he ran into any of these demons ever again, he would take immense pleasure in smiting them from the face of the Earth.

Ba-En-Kekon looked up at the solemn-faced young man, something like childish glee written across her features. “Can I have him, _please?_ He will be _so_ much fun to torture, and educational for all of us! I know the _perfect_ lake of fire—”

The young man held up a hand, and Ba-En-Kekon fell silent, eyes gleaming with desire. Aziraphale ground his teeth together.

The young man tilted his head slightly, examining Crowley’s prone form. “Jannes was right; this is the Serpent. I remember him.” He considered for a moment, eyes emotionless. “He is yours,” he decided at last. “He is nothing in Hell; he will not be missed. Use him to demonstrate the superiority of the way of Osiris.”

Aziraphale growled, feeling himself burning brighter with invisible, focussed divinity.

Ba-En-Kekon looked like she could have hugged someone, a rather unsettling prospect. “ _Thank you_ , my lord.”

The young man nodded solemnly, tongues of torchlight flickering hungrily along his golden rings, armbands, and collar.

“Hey, ummmm,” squeaked a voice, and they all looked over to where the scrawny demon was poking nervously at Aziraphale’s abandoned corporation with the toe of his shoe. “I think I found the other one.”

Ba-En-Kekon strolled over, and a distinctly disappointed look crossed her face as she saw the deathly pallor of Aziraphale’s skin. “Dead.” She kicked the body in the shin, rather hard, just to be sure. “Pity.”

“Whadya think happened to him?” the scrawny demon asked, sounding a little unsettled.

Ba-En-Kekon moved her gaze back to Crowley’s crumpled form and shrugged. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

Aziraphale missed her words as, just then, Crowley started to stir and Aziraphale’s entire attention riveted back on him. Crowley’s shoulders lifted about an inch away from the floor, fingers twitching and head tilting forward slightly. Blood dripped down the side of his face, and Aziraphale stared at him incredulously, hardly able to believe that he was conscious at all.

“There is nothing more to be done here,” the young man announced. “Take the Serpent and let us leave this place. We shall return in due course to look for any treasures this tomb may hold.”

Ba-En-Kekon reached greedily for Crowley’s arm, but the voice of the young man stopped her.

“Oh, and Ba-En-Kekon?” The young man’s malachite-accented eyes were on the relief on the opposite wall, the one that Crowley had said was from the _Book of the Gates_. “Do make sure you weigh his heart against a feather. Maybe one of his own. I would be most interested in watching the ritual carried out in its entirety.”

On the rock-strewn floor, Crowley had dragged his forearms under himself and was trying to prop himself up, but he couldn’t seem to raise himself more than an inch or two, forehead still dragging across the floor.

Ba-En-Kekon’s eyes sang. “Of course, my lord Osiris. Thy will be done.”

The young man styling himself Osiris nodded solemnly, turned, and walked calmly back up the stairs and through the pillared hall, towards the exit.

Ba-En-Kekon roughly grabbed Crowley by the arm and hauled him a bit more upright. Crowley gave a tiny whimper, head hanging and body limp and shaking. She pushed him unceremoniously into Uvall’s hands and strolled up the stairs after Osiris.

Uvall and the scrawny demon followed her, Uvall dragging Crowley behind himself by the back of his collar. Crowley sagged in his huge grip, head falling forward against his chest, arms hanging limply at his sides. The backs of his hands dragged over every rock, and his heels caught on and bounced over every piece of debris. Crowley didn’t even seem to notice, eyes half-open and unfocussed and the faint movements of his chest irregular.

Anger throbbed through Aziraphale as they dragged Crowley away like a sack of potatoes. He had known that Crowley was almost certainly going to be captured, and that it wasn’t likely to be an amicable affair, but watching it play out in front of him while he was helpless to do anything but watch was something else entirely.

And here he was, trapped and useless, forced to watch Crowley pay for a mistake Aziraphale had made. And to know that after he’d done so much for Aziraphale he was just going to get dragged outside and butchered like an animal—

But the worst part was that he couldn’t even stay with Crowley, because, since he no longer had a corporation, as soon as he floated outside of the tomb he would be whisked up to Heaven. It would take him days, maybe even _weeks_ to get a new corporation, and that was precious time Crowley would spend in the clutches of those _vile_ demons.

Aziraphale wrenched his gaze away from the darkened doorway at the far end of the pillared hall where Crowley’s half-conscious form had been dragged out of sight. His eyes landed instead on the long, bright streak of Crowley’s blood on the edge of the sarcophagus.

Aziraphale’s eyes burned with otherworldly light, filled with righteous anger at the sins that had been and were being committed before him, sins he was powerless to prevent.

And that was when Aziraphale, quite accidentally and with some irritation, noticed that he wasn’t the only thing in the room glowing with otherworldly light.

A small oval hovering over the sarcophagus was glowing too.

Aziraphale frowned at it, annoyed, but when he moved closer he realised that the glowing shape wasn’t sitting _on_ _top of_ the sarcophagus at all; it was _inside of_ it.

Struck by a sudden understanding, Aziraphale shifted closer and peered down at the glowing oval even as it began to fade along with Aziraphale’s anger.

Aziraphale only had to cast his gaze back to the red streak on the sarcophagus’s edge to rekindle it, and the oval glowed brighter again as he shifted his gaze back. If he looked very carefully, he could see the outline of a scarab.

It was the amulet.

Aziraphale stared at it for a moment longer and then felt a wave of imagined shivers pass through his intangible self. Heaven had intended to use the amulet as a trap for demons, that much was true, but they had always intended to _modify_ it in order to make a trap. As it stood, the amulet wasn’t a trap at all; allegedly, all it was supposed to do was _hold_ the soul of a demon.

 _Or…an angel_ , Aziraphale guessed, a plan forming in his mind. _Since we’re pretty much the same thing anyway._

And then, with one last glance in the direction the demons had taken Crowley in, Aziraphale rolled up his metaphorical shirtsleeves and reached out towards the ethereal amulet.

 

 

The tomb of Horemheb was still and quiet, just as it had been for the last three thousand years, until very recently.

A torch flickered lower near the smooth, gleaming surface of a beautiful red granite sarcophagus, winged goddesses carved into its corners, their feathers stretching across its faces. A streak of something dark stained one of the edges of its handsome lid.

The air fluttered, not from the torch but from something else entirely, the faintest ripple of movement seeming to originate from someplace very near yet simultaneously very far away.

There came a very faint noise from nowhere in particular, like the far-off cracking of old, brittle paper or the scuffling of a mouse among crisp autumn leaves.

The sound came again a few moments later, slightly louder this time, and the torchlight played along the sarcophagus’ gleaming surfaces.

A third noise filled the space, this one louder and like the crack of a whip, and the lid of the sarcophagus vibrated ever so slightly, three millennia’s worth of dust shivering.

There was a pause, the silence as complete as it can only be that deep into the earth.

And then there came another noise, this one like brittle bones cracking under the pressure of younger hands, and the lid of the sarcophagus of Horemheb cracked.


	12. The Coming Events

**The Tomb of Horemheb, the Valley of the Kings**

February 25th, 1908

 

The demons were dragging Crowley’s slack form across the pre-dawn desert, heading along the valley floor towards where a fifth demon, this one also small and rather unthreatening-looking, had been standing guard.

“You got him!” Mastemot squeaked in delight, scrambling down towards them as sand splashed under her feet like water.

“Uv—ah—Am-heh split his head like a melon!” Dumah called, making his way over to her.

As they neared each other, Mastemot scrunched her nose and pointed with distaste at where Dumah still had a hand clamped over the side of his neck, blood smeared over his skin. “Were you too slow again, Dumah?” she taunted.

“ _My_ _name’s_ Anubis,” Dumah growled.

The other demon drew herself up to her full height. “ _I’m_ Anubis.”

“You little—” Dumah spat, and tackled Mastemot to the ground.

The three more capable demons strolled right past where the pair were scuffling in the dirt. Uvall was still dragging Crowley behind him, Crowley’s heels carving twin furrows into the sand. He had regained a little more consciousness on the trip out of the tomb, but he still didn’t look capable of doing anything more than struggling to keep his head up.

Aziraphale saw all of this as he stepped out of the tomb after them. He half-expected to be drawn up to Heaven immediately, but his borrowed vessel seemed to be acting enough like a proper corporation to keep him on Earth, at least temporarily.

The amulet glowed blue where it lay on his chest, the golden disc woven into the bands of cloth wrapped around the mummy of Horemheb, erstwhile Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt.

Horemheb’s ancient bones creaked as Aziraphale staggered unevenly after Crowley and his captors. Dust and flecks of hardened bandage flaked off his wrappings and fluttered to the ground.

He was only a few paces away from where Dumah and Mastemot were wrestling in the sand when the latter happened to look up.

“Holy—!” Mastemot jumped to her feet, terror scrawling itself across her face.

Dumah made to tackle Mastemot around the legs, and then froze as well.

“Abezi!” Mastemot shrieked, turning and sprinting towards the main party as fast as her legs would carry her, throwing up sand as she did so. “ _Abezi-Thibod!”_

The demon in the form of a young man turned, anger flashing across his face. “I _told_ you, call me—”

Abezi-Thibod saw Aziraphale lurching towards them across the sand, jumped, and took a half-step back. “What the _Heaven_ —”

Ba-En-Kekon and Uvall turned as well, and similar expressions unfolded across their faces. Ba-En-Kekon took a step back.

Aziraphale lumbered towards them as quickly as he could, Horemheb’s mummy difficult to handle. Aziraphale tried to open his mouth and felt some of the bandages tear around where Horemheb’s mouth should have been, leaving a gaping maw in the otherwise faceless orb of the mummy’s head.

“ _P R E T E N D E R S,_ ” Aziraphale growled as he approached, and it came out dusty and low, voice cracking like saplings in a gale.

Mastemot dove behind Uvall for protection, Dumah hot on her heels.

Ba-En-Kekon recovered first, drawing one of her daggers and hurling it at Aziraphale without a moment’s hesitation. Aziraphale felt the blade strike him and lodge in Horemheb’s ribs, but this vessel wasn’t one that required blood or breathing. He continued lurching forward without even bothering to look down at the dagger in his side.

Ba-En-Kekon took another step back as Abezi-Thibod, looking suddenly very ashen in his fine golden ornaments, took a trembling step forward and held out his hand in a gesture of welcome. “What manner of demon are you…friend?”

“D E M O N S   A R E   B E N E A T H   M E,” Aziraphale said, voice sounding like the wind raging over all the sand of Egypt, “A N G E L S   A R E   B E N E A T H   M E.   I   A M    _O S I R I S_ ,   L O R D O F   D E A T H,   A N D   Y O U    _D E F I L E_ M Y   N A M E.” He raised an arm and pointed thick, bundled fingers directly at Abezi-Thibod, who went very pale and took a half-step back.

“But you’re not real!” Ba-En-Kekon shrieked, looking rattled. Uvall, whose expression rarely betrayed much of anything, looked like he was suddenly rethinking all of his life choices.

“I    _A M_ R E A L,” Aziraphale intoned, feeling the amulet on his chest grow brighter as he unfurled brilliant white wings. He extended them to either side, loose feathers drifting free and spiralling to the ground in mysterious eddies. A fortuitous burst of wind whipped a flurry of sand against his wings, shifting their colour to a shimmering tan. “ _A R R O G A N T   D E F I L E R S_ ,” Aziraphale hissed, feeling the tear in the bandages around his mouth rip further. “Y O U   T H O U G H T   Y O U R   G O D   W A S   T H E   O N L Y   O N E   T H E R E   W A S?”

Aziraphale lurched closer, dragging Horemheb’s clumsy, mummified feet over the sand. The demons all scrambled backwards. Uvall released Crowley and he dropped to the sand, looking very pale as he stared dazedly at Aziraphale in shock and fear. Abezi-Thibod fell to his knees as the rest of the party retreated.

“O great Osiris!” Abezi-Thibod cried, “I put myself before you. We sought only to serve you.”

Aziraphale lumbered closer and ground to a halt in front of Abezi-Thibod, who wavered but held his ground. Aziraphale bent forward until he should see Horemheb’s shapeless, bandaged face reflected in the terrified demon’s eyes, and knew that he could smell the death on his breath.

“Y O U   S O U G H T   M Y   N A M E   F O R   Y O U R S E L F,” Aziraphale rasped, and enjoyed watching what little blood was left in Abezi-Thibod’s face drain away.

Aziraphale reached out and grabbed the large gold collar around Abezi-Thibod’s neck, the only piece of his jewellery large enough for Horemheb’s clumsy, wrapped hands to latch onto. Aziraphale yanked Horemheb’s arm back, tearing the collar from Abezi-Thibod’s neck and casting it behind him onto the sand.

“W H O   A R E    _Y O U?”_ Aziraphale demanded, raising his wings and feeling more feathers spiral free. “T O   P R E T E N D   T O   B E    _M E?”_

Abezi-Thibod, evidently realising that Aziraphale wasn’t taking this well, fell backwards and started scrambling away from him across the sand. “I—I didn’t—”

“I   P L A C E   A   C U R S E   U P O N   Y O U   A L L,” Aziraphale declared in a voice ripe with the vengeance of an entire civilisation’s dead, turning his head to encompass all five unfamiliar demons in his words. Crowley had managed to roll onto his stomach and was trying to crawl away, movements painfully slow. Aziraphale raised his arms as though to cast his curse.

“We’ll go,” Abezi-Thibod squeaked, and the rest of the demons began scrambling away with renewed haste. Ba-En-Kekon must have noticed that Uvall had released Crowley, though, because she dashed forward long enough to grab her prize by the arm.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she hissed, and started dragging Crowley bodily after them as they retreated.

“R E L E A S E   H I M,” Aziraphale commanded, taking a step directly towards Ba-En-Kekon.

She froze and paled but held her ground, one hand still clamped around Crowley’s arm as he sagged against the sand, making a valiant effort not to lean against her legs for support.

“He broke into your tomb,” she said boldly. “He is no innocent.”

Crowley tried weakly to pull his arm free, but her grip was unwavering.

Aziraphale thought quickly and hit upon an idea faster than he’d thought he would. “Y O U   S H E D   H I S   B L O O D   U P O N   M Y   T O M B,” he intoned, allowing real anger to seep into his tone. “H I S   L I F E   I S   M I N E.”

Crowley grew, if anything, even paler at that, shaking and still trying to free himself.

Ba-En-Kekon tried staring Aziraphale down, but she quickly averted her eyes and shoved Crowley roughly back to the ground.

“I F   A N Y   O F   Y O U   E V E R   T O U C H   H I M   A G A I N,” Aziraphale growled, “O R   I F   A N Y   O F   Y O U   E V E R   R E T U R N   H E R E ,   O R   S P E A K   O F   T H E S E   E V E N T S   T O    _A N Y O N E_ …” He let that sink in. “M Y   C U R S E   S H A L L   S T R I K E   Y O U   D E A D.” He scraped the bottom of the barrel of his knowledge of the Egyptian religion, all things he had learned from Crowley. “B Y   T H E   P O W E R   O F   A M U N - R A ,   L E T   T H I S   C U R S E   B E   U P O N   Y O U.”

The demons had all gone very ashen at this point, and Dumah was the first to break ranks, turning from where he had been cowering behind Uvall and sprinting in the direction of their camp. Mastemot was fast on his heels. Uvall pulled off the Egyptian earrings and armbands he was wearing, dropped them to the ground, and half-jogged after them. Ba-En-Kekon looked unnerved and Abezi-Thibod like he had taken a personal slap to the face, and, after exchanging fearful looks, both of them turned and sprinted after the others.

Aziraphale waited until he was certain they were gone before hobbling over to where Crowley was weakly trying to crawl away, whole body trembling.

Crowley looked shakily over his shoulder as he sensed Aziraphale’s approach. The demon was as pale as a sheet, and the right side of his face was caked with blood. His eyes were wide, serpentine pupils blown almost round as he tried to edge away from Aziraphale, hands slipping ineffectually against the sand. “P—Please,” Crowley gasped, breaths coming fast and shallow.

Aziraphale looked down at his friend, overcome with emotion. The sun was beginning to break over the ridges in the valley, and Aziraphale raised his sand-coated wings to keep Crowley in the shade.

He reached out towards the demon with a misshapen hand. “C R O W L E Y,” he said. He’d meant to say it kindly, but it came out with the same scratching, ominous growl as everything else that had passed through Horemheb’s misshapen mouth.

Crowley took one look at him and fainted dead away.

Aziraphale frowned down at his friend and continued reaching towards him, Horemheb’s mummified body creaking as he reached down and gently laid the tips of his bandaged fingers on Crowley’s cheek. Aziraphale had practically no feeling in his borrowed hands, but he could still feel the unnatural warmth of Crowley’s ashen cheeks and the sweat beading on his skin.

Freed from the constraints on his magic imposed by the tomb’s warding, Aziraphale began pouring healing power into his friend, continuing until the long gash on the side of Crowley’s head had all but vanished, the flow of blood tapering off.

“Oi!” shouted a voice with an English accent from somewhere behind Aziraphale.

Aziraphale pulled his hand away from Crowley, who appeared to be breathing more steadily now, eyes still closed, and turned to see the tall, lanky form of Edward Ayrton jogging towards him across the valley floor, waving his white panama hat in Aziraphale’s direction. A ways behind him trailed another figure, also coming from the direction of Davis’s camp.

Ayrton skidded to a halt as he took in the sight of the animated, mummified body of a long-dead pharaoh sprouting a set of brilliant but poorly preened and now sand-covered wings.

“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Ayrton said, and crossed himself.

Aziraphale looked back down at Crowley and decided that the demon would be in good hands. It was time for him to make his exit.

Aziraphale turned Horemheb’s head towards the western end of the valley, where he knew a narrow path would lead him past the rocky ridges and into the desert. There would be sand aplenty there, and enough of a breeze to allow him to put Horemheb—and everything else that his wrappings contained—to a final rest.

The amulet glowed brightly on Aziraphale’s chest as he lumbered away from Crowley across the rocky ground, determined to put right something he should have long ago.

 

 

**The Valley of the Kings**

1292 BC

 

“Is this Seket?” Pathtumon asked cautiously, clutching the destroyed amulet and staring up at where the shaft of blue light shone down on them from no apparent source.

“It is us,” said the voice of the Metatron. “We have returned from most urgent business. Seket informed us that the mission went well. Will you now return the amulet?”

Pathtumon shifted on his feet and cast Aziraphale a sidelong glance. “Well, actually, um…”

“Pathtumon was intending to give you the amulet,” Aziraphale said helpfully, “but before he was able to there was an unfortunate accident.”

There was a short pause. “Who is that speaking?”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale supplied. “Pathtumon explained about my test when he realised that the real amulet had been stolen from him, and he enlisted my help to retrieve it.”

“It was the demon!” Pathtumon cried, and Aziraphale watched the sweat break out across his forehead. “I don’t know how he even knew that I had it—”

“ _The_ _demon has the amulet?”_ the Metatron thundered, the shaft of light growing in intensity. “You know how powerful that amulet is—”

“No, no, we got it back,” Pathtumon amended quickly.

Aziraphale could hear the annoyance in the Metatron’s voice. “Then _why_ do you vex us so?”

Pathtumon took a worried breath. “We got it back from the demon, but in the process of retrieving it, it might have…got a little smashed.”

“A lot smashed,” Aziraphale clarified calmly. “I don’t believe it can be used for its intended purpose anymore.”

The light grew even brighter, and Aziraphale wondered with detached interest if the Metatron could smite someone long-distance.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Pathtumon cried, looking distressed. “The demon was cunning!”

“Very cunning,” Aziraphale jumped in. “Crafty, resourceful, and powerful. I’ve been thwarting his schemes for some time now. He was difficult to manipulate, but I was able to lure him and the amulet into a trap, but Pathtumon failed to properly spring that trap.”

Pathtumon cast Aziraphale a slightly horrified look, but Aziraphale didn’t spare him a glance.

“Is this true, Pathtumon?” the voice of the Metatron rumbled.

Pathtumon looked physically in pain. “Y—yes,” he admitted.

“It was not Pathtumon’s fault that the forces of darkness were present,” Aziraphale said calmly, “but I must say I think he could have taken greater precautions, given that he knew a powerful demon was operating in the area.”

“I didn’t think the demon was a threat!” Pathtumon protested.

“Every demon is a threat,” the Metatron snapped. “And this incident would not have occurred if you had not insisted a duplicate be made in the first place. You have failed in your mission and denied Heaven a valuable weapon in the war against the forces of evil.”

Pathtumon looked like the Metatron was sentencing him to death. “My Lord, I beg you, give me another chance—”

“We rather think we have given you too many chances,” the Metatron said coldly. “Step into the light.”

Pathtumon cast Aziraphale a pleading glance, but Aziraphale only gave him a beatific smile.

Pathtumon swallowed heavily, turned back to the shaft of light before them, and stepped into it.

The light surrounded him and he vanished in an instant, whisked up to Heaven in the blink of an eye.

“Aziraphale?” the Metatron rumbled.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work passing the test.” The Metatron’s praise sounded grudging. “We will send a replacement for Pathtumon soon.”

“If I may make a suggestion,” Aziraphale said reasonably, “I don’t know if that would be an efficient use of resources. The demon I have been struggling against is most clever, and manipulating him is an exceptionally difficult task. Pathtumon meant well, but he didn’t understand the nuances of my method, and I fear he may have done more harm than good. My method has so far proved very effective at thwarting the most nefarious of the demon’s plots. I believe I have things well in hand here, and I know there are other areas where the talents of a capable angel might be better utilised.”

The Metatron was silent for a moment, and Aziraphale waited nervously, wondering if he had been too bold. He remembered what Crowley had said about Heaven thinking he was going soft.

“Very well,” the Metatron said at last. “But Heaven will send a replacement if we deem it necessary.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale conceded.

The light receded without so much as a good-bye, fading away to nothing along with the sense of divinity.

Aziraphale let out a relieved breath. Everything would go back to normal now, and he could finally stop worrying about Pathtumon running into Crowley at any time. He was looking forward to a good couple of relaxing centuries.

 

 

“We don’t believe we have to tell you the degree to which you have disappointed us,” the Metatron said, tones clipped and golden eyes burning like twin flames.

Pathtumon stared at the cool white stone floor, the divinity of Heaven filling the air around him. “I am sorry.”

“You will no longer be permitted on the Earth,” the Metatron continued, picking up a piece of paper from their desk and placing it squarely in front of themself. “You will speak of this to no one, and you will be reassigned permanently to an internal department not of your choosing.”

The words hit Pathtumon like a blow, but he knew deep down that the punishment was just. He had failed himself, he had failed Heaven and the Metatron, and, worst of all, he had failed his Father.

“Your testing of Aziraphale proved quite useful,” the Metatron continued, picking up a gold-tipped reed pen from their desk and dipping it in a small bowl of water. “We did not think he was capable of assuming a leadership role in the events to come, but you have proven otherwise. Having someone with such field experience spearheading the operation will be a great asset.”

Pathtumon felt himself pale slightly, eyes nervously tracking the Metatron’s hand as they ran the tip of the reed pen over a small cake of lampblack, picking up the soot-coloured pigment. “You do not mean…that _Aziraphale_ will be in charge of…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

The Metatron, in the middle of signing the piece of paper on their desk, stopped, pen nib still touching the paper. “That _is_ what we mean. If only you had kept your doubts to yourself, it could have been you.”

Pathtumon felt the well of despair inside of himself deepen. He had truly believed Aziraphale to be incompetent to the utmost, but the last twenty-four hours had made him doubt everything he had ever assumed. The Aziraphale who had sold him out to the Metatron had been so much more calculating and exacting than the one who had spent his days holed up in his pathetic human house with his scrolls and beer. He wondered suddenly if Aziraphale really _had_ been running a very complicated operation against the demon, one that Pathtumon had blundered ignorantly into. The thought made him feel awful.

“Will it…happen soon?” Pathtumon asked miserably.

“Very,” the Metatron said, turning their gaze away from Pathtumon and finishing their signature. “The schedule has been accelerated. God’s chosen people will not remain in Egypt much longer.”

Pathtumon dipped his head in acceptance of the Metatron’s words.

“Now get out of our sight.”

 

 

When Aziraphale returned to the tomb of Horemheb the next day, planning on retrieving the amulet from the basket he had hidden it in, the tomb was again a buzz of activity.

He waved his way past the guards outside and clambered past numerous artisans hastily applying more paint to the walls. As the path narrowed, he found himself following two workmen, each of whom was carrying a large clay pot decorated with painted blue birds and lotuses.

As they reached the pillared hall at the bottom of the tomb, Aziraphale saw that the room was crowded with people, mostly guards, priests, and workmen.

“Oil over here,” one of the priests directed, gesturing towards the workmen Aziraphale had been following, and they obediently moved towards him with the clay pots.

“What are you here for?” one of the guards asked Aziraphale with a frown. “Do you have credentials?”

“Don’t mind me,” Aziraphale said, patting the guard on the arm and moving further through the hall, dodging workmen shifting items to and fro across the room.

He was halfway down the freshly chiselled steps leading to the sunken area in the back when he noticed that the sarcophagus was now closed, the lid firmly resting on its base. Undeterred, Aziraphale edged around the space, inching past a priest to the place where he had left the amulet, hidden with some smaller amulet stones in a basket. A brief survey of the area, however, quickly informed him that the basket was missing.

Feeling anxious but like it had probably just been moved to somewhere else in the room, Aziraphale tapped the nearest priest on the shoulder.

“Hey, hello, there was a basket of amulets sitting just there yesterday, do you know where it’s got to?”

The priest frowned at him. “And who are you?”

“A friend of Egypt,” Aziraphale said, using the same spell on the priest as he had on the guard. “Do you know where the amulets are?”

“Where they should be,” the priest said shortly, nodding at the red granite sarcophagus. “With the pharaoh.”

Aziraphale felt his heart drop. “You’re not serious? _All_ of them?”

The priest looked slightly offended. “I know how to do my job, if that’s what you’re implying. Amulets are always buried with the deceased, to guide their spirits in the afterlife. Everyone knows that.”

Aziraphale gazed at the sarcophagus in horror, only then realising the full extent of what had transpired. “It’s been seventy days, hasn’t it?”

Seventy days was how long the embalming process took. Ramesses had been pharaoh for seventy days, and Horemheb must have been formally interred sometime yesterday, after Aziraphale had left the valley. He hadn’t been convinced that Heaven wouldn’t try to contact him again right away, so he’d decided to give it some time and return the next morning to retrieve the amulet. He’d whiled away the greater part of the day in Thebes getting a drink and doing some light reading, which he now regretted, but at the time he hadn’t realised he was on any sort of deadline.

_No wonder the artists were working so hard_ , he thought.

“The preparations are slightly behind schedule,” the priest admitted. “But the tomb will be formally closed at sunset.”

Aziraphale absorbed that, staring at the closed sarcophagus in dismay. By the time he looked back at the priest, he saw that he’d turned away and was in discussion with another, younger priest.

Aziraphale turned his gaze back to the sarcophagus. The lid looked exceptionally heavy, and he’d have to convince all the humans to leave the room before he could even consider opening it by magical means. And if he missed anyone, if word of this got out…

It wasn’t Heaven he was worried about so much as Crowley. He had told the demon that he had destroyed the amulet, but he wasn’t ready to make good on his word just yet.

He didn’t want Above or Below getting their hands on the amulet, not if it was as powerful as everyone said it was, but he also wasn’t convinced of his own ability to hide it. Given how often Crowley broke into his house and rifled through his belongings, it wouldn’t be safe from discovery there. His best recourse would be to hide it somewhere off-site, in a place where he knew it wouldn’t be discovered for a very long time, the metaphorical burying in the sand.

Aziraphale took in the sarcophagus anew and felt his anxiety begin to fade away. Maybe everything would work out for him after all. So long as Crowley didn’t suspect that Aziraphale had lied about destroying the amulet, he didn’t have any reason to return to the tomb after it had been sealed, and no one else did either.

Aziraphale looked around at the sturdy walls buried deep in the earth, hidden away from prying human hands. Perhaps this _would_ be the safest place for the amulet.

He remembered what the priest had said about the tomb being sealed at sunset. That gave him some time, then, to strengthen the natural defences of the tomb with supernatural ones.

As the plan formed in Aziraphale’s mind, he felt himself calm further. Things were well in hand. He idly watched a nearby artisan adding the finishing touches to a relief of a god and some weighing scales on the wall behind the sarcophagus, and then went to find a spare chisel.

 

 

The way the sun set over the valley was beautiful, its golden light bathing the far line of ridges and picking out every tiny shadow.

Aziraphale’s hands were tired from his work with the chisel, but he was confident that the amulet would remain undisturbed and therefore undiscovered, lost to the world and those above or below it who would seek to use its power for unjust ends.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of one of the ridges forming the northern slope of the valley, listening to the distant sounds of the last prayers of the priests as they finished the ritual closing of the tomb. He’d been sitting here for a little while now, enjoying the waning warmth of the day, and was currently watching a figure he recognised as Crowley strolling up the slope in his direction.

Aziraphale wiped the last of the incriminating stone dust off his hands and waited for the demon to reach him.

When he did, Aziraphale was oddly heartened to see that he had taken the time to heal himself, and didn’t look any worse for yesterday’s scuffle.

“Found you at last,” Crowley said as he reached him, casting a couple of wary glances around himself as he neared, evidently not willing to be ambushed again.

“Pathtumon’s gone,” Aziraphale told him. “Heaven decided losing the amulet was all his fault and reassigned him.”

Crowley looked cheered by the prospect, and he made his way over to sit down next to Aziraphale. “Really? Wouldn’t have thought Heaven would be so understanding.”

“Well, they might have had a bit of help reaching that conclusion,” Aziraphale admitted.

He saw Crowley grin in his periphery as the demon settled down into a more comfortable position. “Well, good riddance, I say. He always was an arrogant prick.”

Aziraphale believed in never speaking ill of a coworker, but he didn’t think that label applied to his erstwhile divine partner anymore. “Yes, he was,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley’s grin widened, but Aziraphale refused the demon’s attempts to catch his eye, instead looking resolutely out at the opposite ridge.

Despite the easy friendliness of the moment, Aziraphale felt guilt settling in the bottom of his stomach. Though he knew keeping the secret of the amulet’s continued existence from Crowley was in everyone’s best interests, there was another apology he could easily make.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you earlier,” he said, looking at the ground. “You were right all along, about Pathtumon and Heaven, and I didn’t believe you.”

Crowley nodded, accepting his apology with more grace than a demon ought to have possessed. “It’s all right. But at least the ruddy thing’s destroyed now. It was the right thing to do, and I’m glad you saw that.”

Aziraphale, feeling rotten all the way to the core, forced himself to nod. “And I’m sorry about Pathtumon roughing you up, too,” he added before he could dwell further on his other sins. “He was supposed to stay away from you.”

Crowley made an amused noise. “Don’t be. I made nearly twenty debens selling that dagger of his—can you believe the blade was solid gold?”

Aziraphale, who had indeed noticed Pathtumon’s slightly sinful indulgence in expensive material things but had not pointed it out for fear of being called a hypocrite, gave a short laugh.

“Oh,” Crowley said, rummaging around in something by his side, “and I brought you this back.” He turned to Aziraphale and held out the beautiful multicoloured necklace Aziraphale had cast onto Crowley’s table during their staged argument. “This is how I was tracking you, by the way, as I’m sure you already figured out—I can’t believe you wore it to the palace on an actual _heist_.”

Aziraphale, who had in fact not realised that Crowley had been tracking him magically at all, accepted the necklace with surprise.

“I took off the bead that was tied to the tracking spell,” Crowley said. “But the fashionable thing still stands. I have an image to maintain.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said honestly.

Crowley shrugged easily. “Don’t mention it, angel.”


	13. The Pharaoh’s Curse

**The Valley of the Kings**

February 25th, 1908

 

Consciousness came to Crowley far less agreeably than he would have liked. He had been having a very strange but wonderfully painless dream about nothing in particular that was most rudely interrupted when his corporation decided it was time he rejoin the waking world.

A throbbing headache immediately started up, until it felt like someone was tapping him repeatedly on the side of the head with a rubber mallet, or perhaps the heel of a boot, but the pain was so much more manageable than it had been before.

Crowley’s body ached in a dozen places, and his ears rang slightly as he struggled to dredge up the specifics of the last thing he remembered.

The group of demons had arrived in the tomb, Crowley had ineffectually tried to fight them off, and then…his memory became very hazy after Ba-En-Kekon had tackled him to the floor near the sarcophagus. The next thing he remembered clearly was being dragged across the sand outside the tomb as a mummified figure with terrifying tawny wings emerged from the dark hole in the earth. Crowley’s mind fast-forwarded to when the creature had placed a claim over Crowley’s life, a debt made by blood—

Fear stirred Crowley the rest of the way to consciousness, and he gulped in a deep breath as he struggled upwards, eyes shooting open. A wave of dizziness immediately overcame him, greying out his vision as his ears rang more loudly and the pounding in his head increased. He thought he could feel someone’s hand on his arm as he sank back down against whatever was beneath him, but when he turned his head all he could make out was a tall, tan-coloured shape looming over him.

“O—Osiris?” Crowley mumbled fearfully, and his own voice sounded distant, as though he were underwater. He hung in that moment for a long while, fully believing in the existence of a deity he had given up on millennia ago.

When the ringing in his head finally subsided enough to let him register a voice speaking to him, he noticed with relief that it sounded human, not the horrible otherworldly growl that had emanated from the animated corpse outside Horemheb’s tomb.

It took him a few moments more to piece together what the voice was saying. “—there now, stay calm, Mr Crowley, you’re going to be all right—”

Crowley’s hearing faded out again as he fished clumsily around inside of himself for his magic, and when he found it he began liberally applying it to every part of himself within easy reach.

His head began to clear much faster, and the ringing in his ears subsided considerably. He drew a deep breath and felt the world settle into place around him, and as his vision cleared he hazily took in his surroundings with the momentary confusion of someone who has woken up somewhere different than they fell asleep.

He was stretched out on one of the uncomfortable beds in Davis’s camp, the tawny canopy of a tent stretching over him and casting everything in the immediate vicinity into shade. For some reason, when he tilted his head towards the person who’d been addressing him he half-expected it to be Aziraphale, but instead it was one of the young men Davis had brought with him off his houseboat.

“’o are you?” Crowley groaned, trying to sit up and regretting it.

“I’m Lancelot Crane, sir, the artist. Mr Davis’s artist, for the tombs. If you’d hang on a moment, I’ll go fetch Mr Ayrton.”

Crowley grunted something in response and sank back down against the bed. He took another shaky breath and turned his attention back to magically wiping away more of his pounding headache. The application of magic helped immensely, and he felt his thoughts and focus sharpen even though he still felt very unwell overall.

He took a deep breath and propped himself up on his elbows as his swimming head steadied, and took a moment to reinspect his surroundings. His bed was situated near the centre of the tent, in the deepest shade, and his eyes shied away from the blinding brightness of the stretch of sun-dazzled sand visible outside the tent. Lancelot Crane had already left, leaving Crowley alone with drapes of mosquito-proof netting, several trunks and pieces of luggage, and other assorted crates and goods. He raised a hand to the side of his head, but though he could feel dried blood still clinging to his hair, his tender probings didn’t uncover more than a slight wound. Perhaps he hadn’t been as badly hurt as he’d initially thought.

He was still assessing the extent of the damage when Mr Crane returned, the gangly, grey-suited form of Edward Ayrton on his heels. Crowley automatically felt around his pockets for his tinted green glasses, and when he failed to find them he quickly cast a normalising spell over his serpentine eyes.

“Mr Crowley, I see you’re recovering,” Ayrton greeted him solemnly, adjusting his hat as he entered the shade of the tent. “I have been meaning to speak with you.”

“…okay,” Crowley said hoarsely, pushing himself up into slightly more of a sitting position and forcibly stopping himself from wincing.

Ayrton took the seat Crane had vacated and glanced back at the young artist. He looked like he was considering asking Crane to leave, but instead he just turned back to Crowley.

“I hope you don’t mind my brashness, but I must ask…what happened to you last night?”

Crowley took a deep breath, wondering how much to reveal. He opted for a half-truth. “I don’t remember much, to be honest with you.”

Ayrton frowned. “It must have been very traumatic, and you took quite the blow to the head. Do you remember…” He hesitated. “I’m afraid your friend Mr Fell seems to have met an untimely end.”

Crowley nodded slowly.

“We found his body at the bottom of a tomb…which most certainly had not been open the day before.”

Crowley nodded again. “Mr Fell and I had been doing some reading,” he lied easily, “and we thought we might try our luck looking for a tomb ourselves. We found one almost right away, and we went down to explore, but…” He let himself trail off.

Ayrton frowned, looking slightly distressed. “Is there anything else you remember? Anything at all? When I found you, there was a…it looked like a…”

“I—I don’t know,” Crowley said, honestly enough.

Ayrton shifted on his seat and cast half a glance at Crane, who looked absolutely enthralled.

The archaeologist cleared his throat. “When you were unconscious, you were mumbling about…curses.”

Crowley couldn’t suppress a shiver at the memory. “Maybe Horemheb didn’t like us disturbing his sleep,” he suggested, entirely as a joke.

Ayrton, however, went very pale, and Crane’s eyes grew wide.

The artist took a small step towards Ayrton. “Mr Burton said he saw—”

“Shh,” Ayrton said, and though he stood up brusquely he looked very rattled.

“He says you saw it too,” Crane insisted. “He’s not one to exaggerate the truth, sir—”

Ayrton kept his gaze on Crowley. “Thank you, Mr Crowley, please let me know if you remember anything else. Don’t let the overactive imagination of Mr Crane distract you from your rest. I’ll send Dr Smith over to see to your injuries. And I _am_ sorry about Mr Fell.” He turned and walked out of the tent, but Crowley saw him stop right outside for a few moments before starting off.

Crane just stared at Crowley, eyes like saucers. “Mr Burton says there was a walking mummy,” he said at once. “That the spirit of Horemheb returned to cast out the defilers from his tomb. Mr Jones thinks it killed Mr Fell and scared off the other group of archeologists who were camped in the western part of the valley. He thinks we need to stop digging right away.”

Crowley, who didn’t care much what Mr Burton, Mr Jones, _or_ Mr Crane believed, swung his legs off the bed and stood up shakily, head swimming a little.

“Whoa, careful there, Mr Crowley. You’re supposed to wait for Dr—where are you going?”

“Where does it look like?” Crowley grumbled, rubbing the side of his head. “Out of this accursed valley.”

 

 

**Luxor**

March 18th, 1908

 

Aziraphale tracked Crowley down at the Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor. He had been mildly surprised that Crowley hadn’t left Egypt entirely, but, given the amount of time that had passed, he supposed the only reasonable explanation was that Crowley was waiting for him.

If nothing else, it made him easy to track down. This was the same hotel whose merits had lauded to Aziraphale on their way into the valley, and he’d even left a message for Aziraphale at the hotel desk.

Now, Aziraphale found Crowley sitting alone at a table for two in the la Corniche Restaurant attached to the five-star hotel, folding and unfolding the cloth napkin lying on the table in front of him.

He spent a minute watching Crowley from afar, hovering near the restaurant’s entranceway and gazing across the busy room to where Crowley gave up worrying the napkin and took a sip of water. He was pulled out of his reverie when a waiter approached and asked Aziraphale graciously if he could help him with anything.

“Ah, nothing, thanks,” Aziraphale said, using a brief miracle to send the man on his way.

He took another short moment and then gathered himself and started across the room, winding his way between the round tables draped with white tablecloths towards where Crowley sat staring into the distance, a new set of tinted glasses resting on his nose. The demon happened to glance over as Aziraphale wound his way closer, and he froze in surprise. Aziraphale saw confusion, recognition, relief, and dread pass across Crowley’s face in succession, the last emotion settling heavily onto his features.

Crowley pushed back his chair and unsteadily gained his feet, pulling off his tinted glasses and fumbling to set them on the table. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s eyes rove down his body and back up as he approached, taking in the new corporation Heaven had given him. Aziraphale similarly took in Crowley’s appearance, noting the cleaned, combed nature of his hair and general impression of good health, apart from his anxious pallor.

As Aziraphale neared Crowley’s table, the demon shrank away slightly, looking very much as though he had been dreading this moment for weeks.

“Hi,” Crowley said in a small voice. His expression was conflicted, dread and relief vying for supremacy.

Aziraphale strode right up and, without breaking stride, slapped Crowley across the cheek. The demon’s head snapped to the side, skin going even whiter.

“Don’t you ever do something that stupid again,” Aziraphale told him harshly, ignoring the alarmed looks of several nearby diners. “I can make my own decisions, and you could have got yourself killed.”

The cheek that Aziraphale had struck began to grow bright red, but Crowley didn’t even bother raising a hand to it. Instead, he averted his gaze to the floor, looking suddenly very alone in a way Aziraphale had rarely seen him.

“I—I know,” Crowley said, voice still quiet. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have—”

He hadn’t even finished by the time Aziraphale, all of his anger towards Crowley spent, pulled his friend into a tight hug.

Crowley stiffened in his grip, and Aziraphale read his confusion in his posture. After a short moment, he felt Crowley relax slightly and begin to cautiously hug him back, arms reaching uncertainly around his sides. And then, all at once, Crowley’s grip tightened and he drew Aziraphale even closer, until the tip of his nose was tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s shoulder, a bit higher up than it had been until very recently.

When, after a few seconds, Crowley showed no signs of letting go, Aziraphale gently pulled away and Crowley reluctantly followed suit.

Relief and something like hope were scrawled across Crowley’s features, and Aziraphale suddenly felt very bad for slapping him, the mark still bright on his friend’s cheek.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale said sternly before he lost his nerve entirely, “that was stupid. Don’t ever do it again.”

Crowley nodded, but there was a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

Aziraphale considered pressing the issue, but he thought Crowley understood his position well enough. Besides, the memory of the expression of dread on Crowley’s face was still fresh in his mind, and he hated the idea that Crowley would ever dread seeing him.

“Well,” Aziraphale said as stiffly as he could, “what’s done is done. But _please_ consult with me in the future.”

Crowley looked even more relieved at this, as though he’d been expecting a much greater condemnation. He nodded hastily.

Aziraphale took a seat in the chair opposite Crowley, signalling the conclusion of his displeasure. Crowley sat down as well, and the curious diners nearby gradually returned to their own business.

A waiter drifted over. “Anything I can get you gentlemen?”

“…tea?” Crowley suggested tentatively, glancing at Aziraphale. “And whatever pastries you have.”

The waiter nodded and retreated, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind him.

Crowley cleared his throat, hands fiddling with his tinted glasses on the table. “So, ah…I don’t remember a whole lot. Were you…Osiris?”

Aziraphale nodded, and at the confirmation Crowley looked a little relieved.

Aziraphale went on to explain how, after Crowley had discorporated him, his soul had remained trapped in the tomb. Crowley began to turn a little red at this point, apparently realising that the actions he had taken in what he thought was the privacy of his own solitude hadn’t been so private after all. Aziraphale, taking pity on his friend, didn’t mention any details and instead included a fabricated story of how he had ventured up and down the tomb for about an hour, looking for any break in the warding.

He finished with how he had ethereally noticed the amulet, still in Horemheb’s sarcophagus, and used it to possess Horemheb’s mummy. Crowley nodded along as he summarised his shooing away of the demons, looking impressed and like he half-remembered parts of it. Crowley also seemed to be growing more comfortable the more they talked, the last traces of anxiety vanishing from his face as they fell into their regular rhythm.

“I see you finally considered the idea of another religion existing alongside our own,” Crowley said, a bit cheekily, as Aziraphale finished.

“It was a convenient lie,” Aziraphale said loftily.

“Well, I’m glad it was,” Crowley said as their waiter returned, bearing a silver tray loaded down with a kettle, two tea cups, and an assortment of delightful-looking sweets.

Their waiter poured their tea for them, laid the sweets out before them, and went on his way.

“How’s that?” Aziraphale asked as he plopped two sugar cubes into his tea and stirred them into oblivion with his spoon.

“Well,” Crowley said, “as great as I’m sure the Egyptian underworld is, I really wasn’t looking forward to being Osiris’s personal servant for the rest of time.”

Aziraphale huffed a gentle laugh, and when he looked up at Crowley he saw the demon giving him a tentative smile. “No?”

“Huge waste of time,” Crowley dismissed, picking up a pastry studded with colourful berries. “Besides, I have so many wiles to thwart and all that.”

“ _You_ do the wiling,” Aziraphale reminded his friend sternly, adding a liberal amount of cream to his tea. “ _I_ do the thwarting.”

“Aw, you always were a stickler for the rules, weren’t you, angel?” Crowley said, tearing the pastry in half and reaching over to slide the greater part onto the edge of Aziraphale’s plate.

Aziraphale looked down at it, one eyebrow raised. “And you always were trying to tempt me, you serpent.”

Crowley gave him a small smile, serpentine eyes twinkling. “Is it working?”

Aziraphale eyed the pastry on his plate, a scone studded with multicoloured dried berries so very reminiscent of a much earlier gift of a beautiful necklace. Aziraphale smiled warmly as he picked up the scone. “You bet it is,” he said, and took a bite.

 

 

_Epilogue_

 

**London**

April 6th, 1912

 

“This is not right at all!” Aziraphale said, aghast, scanning over the open pages of the book in his hands. “I mean, I should have assumed that Davis would take the credit for discovering the tomb, but… _really?_ His entire report is only three pages long!”

“I didn’t get the impression he was very interested in scholarship,” Crowley said mildly, looking across the length of the bookshop at the angel.

“I managed to get ahold of a copy of _Ayrton’s_ report, and it was quite excellent, but listen to this!” Aziraphale stabbed his finger at the open page of the book in his hand. “‘To Mr Edward Ayrton for his faithful work in opening and clearing the tomb. He has written an exhaustive report which, owing to the size of this volume, _I am unable to include_.’” Aziraphale looked back up at Crowley, as though certain the demon would share his outrage. “Davis thought Ayrton’s was bloody well _too long to include!_ Horemheb _ought_ to come back and curse them, for that slight.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement. “That Egyptian curse lark has really, er, been doing the rounds, hasn’t it?”

“It _has_ ,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little distressed about it. “I can’t imagine just my little fabrication started all this…you didn’t have a hand in it, did you?”

“Not at all,” Crowley said innocently. He watched Aziraphale rifle through the book a bit more, looking dismayed.

“Well,” Crowley said loudly when Aziraphale showed no signs of stopping anytime soon, “whenever you’re done wearing your thumbs out, we ought to get going. You can bring it with, if you’re _that_ attached.”

Aziraphale grumbled something under his breath and pushed the book onto a nearby shelf. “I don’t want to have Davis’s oversized ego for company quite that long.”

Crowley brightened at this indication that they might actually get moving. “Excellent! If we leave in the next hour or so we should be able to make it to Nine Elms in time to catch the next train to Southhampton. Our ship leaves within the week, you know.”

“Ah yes, you and your fancy ships,” Aziraphale muttered, critically brushing a speck of dust off one of his shelves.

“It _is_ the fastest way to get to America,” Crowley said, leaning over the cluttered bookshop counter towards Aziraphale, eyes bright. “And this one’s the latest in the White Star Line, even bigger and faster than the one I took a few years ago.”

“Does it have a library?”

“It does,” Crowley confirmed. “And a squash court, and a lounge modelled after Versailles, and a Parisian cafe. It’ll go by in a flash, angel; we’ll be in New York City before you know it.”

Aziraphale frowned over at Crowley with the expression of someone who is having the mechanics of flying pigs explained to them. “Doesn’t it get awfully heavy, with all those extra rooms?”

“It’s a product of the finest engineering in the world,” Crowley said cheerfully, striding over to Aziraphale and putting his arm reassuringly around his friend’s shoulders. “And there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, angel; they say she’s unsinkable!”


	14. Author's Note

Welcome to the author’s note! And hey, thanks for reading my fic! The majority of this will be historical notes, with some other miscellaneous notes at the bottom.

Researching this was a ton of fun (I got to read two whole books just on Egyptian daily life and religion!), and I was running in full Egyptmania mode for several months. It’s just so cool, guys! Hopefully I managed to impart some of my hard-earned knowledge to you. ;)

 

HISTORY

Let’s start with the things that are _not_ historical. They are: Lancelot Crane’s age (I couldn’t find any dates for his birth or even his death, and he was probably around 30, given the ages of everyone else on Davis’s team, but I decided to make him closer to 18), the Egyptian drinking song (I _did_ look for ancient Egyptian drinking songs, but couldn’t find anything, or even a comparable Sumerian song, sadly, so I just made one up), and possibly Harry Burton’s presence on Davis’s team (it was hard to pin down exact dates, but, though Harry Burton _did_ work for Theodore Davis, he might not have started until two years after this fic is set (oops)).

That’s it! Everything else: facts!*   *to the best of my knowledge

There are so many little historical details in this fic that I can’t possibly cover them all in this author’s note, but if I didn’t mention it just now as being unhistorical, it’s a fairly safe bet I dredged that information up from somewhere.

 

**Theodore I-Own-The-Place Davis & Co.**

I mean. You can’t make this crap up. This man was unbelievable, and if Howard Carter hadn’t come along and found King Tut’s tomb, Theodore Davis would be hands-down the most famous Egyptologist of all time.

In terms of scholarship, he was a bit of a crap archaeologist, but everyone was back then, and he was better than most. The book he published about his discovery of the tomb of Horemheb (KV57 in archaeology lingo) and what he thought was the tomb of Tutankhamen (KV56) is in all fairness rather hefty, but very little of it is a useful archaeological record. The bit Davis wrote about actually discovering Horemheb’s tomb, for instance, _is_ only three pages long, and he closes it by stating “I fear that the Valley of the Tomb is now exhausted.” Bet Carter gave him a hard time about that, haha.

Oh, and Edward Ayrton apparently _did_ write an exhaustive report on the tomb discovery, but no known copies survive. :(((

The other members of Davis’s entourage who I mention are Edward Ayrton (archaeologist), Harry Burton (photographer), Lancelot Crane (artist, you can see some of his renderings of the tombs [here](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search#!?q=lancelot%20crane&perPage=20&sortBy=Relevance&sortOrder=asc&offset=0&pageSize=0)), Dr. Grafton Elliot Smith (a medical doctor, Davis talks to him at the beginning, when they’re on the _Beduin_ ), and Emma Andrews (the woman in green, Davis’s “lady companion”; she kept a very historically helpful diary).

Here’s an awesome photo of Mr. Davis himself, standing second from the right. CHECK OUT THAT ’STACHE. The man on the far right is Edward Ayrton, looking thoroughly competent. The two people on the left don’t appear in the fic (it’s the Chief Inspector of Antiquities for Upper Egypt and his wife).

BUT JUST CHECK OUT THIS LEGENDARY MUSTACHE ON THEODORE DAVIS OH MY GOD

Oh, and here’s a great photo of Harry Burton (the photographer).

He doesn’t show up a lot in the fic but I watched [a really interesting documentary](http://www.hddocumentary.com/bbc-the-man-who-shot-tutankhamun-2017/) on him. After he worked for Davis he worked for Carter, and he is the one who took nearly _all_ the photos we have today of the discovery of King Tut’s tomb. You know, [the famous ones](http://www.griffith.ox.ac.uk/discoveringtut/burton5/burtoncolour.html).

 

**The Crawford**

For any inquisitive minds, Davis’s car is a 1906 Crawford tourer.

 

**Horemheb’s Tomb**

Horemheb himself is actually a really interesting character, though he doesn’t appear alive in any part of the fic. He was the last pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty (only a few pharaohs after King Tut and a few before Ramesses II, who is traditionally the pharaoh of the Exodus, to give you an idea), and also not related by blood or marriage to any of his predecessors. He was a commoner, but had done such a good job of being a general that he ended up becoming pharaoh after that whole Akhenaten fiasco (see below).

Historians aren’t sure why Horemheb’s tomb wasn’t finished by the time of his death (he had a long enough reign that finishing it shouldn’t have been a problem, and he didn’t die really early or unexpectedly), but it’s one of the few tombs in the Valley of the Kings where the paintings and such aren’t finished (making it actually really helpful for learning about artistic processes). It was as though “the workmen finished on one day [and left] as if to return the following.”

When the tomb was discovered on February 25th, 1908, the sarcophagus lid was broken and the mummy of Horemheb missing. They also found several skeletons and signs that the tomb had been pillaged, likely in antiquity.

The tomb is laid out thusly:

And here are some neat photos:

Oh, and if you _really_ want to nerd out, there’s a great 3D model of Horemheb’s tomb [here](https://www.osirisnet.net/3d-tours/kv57/index.php?en). It doesn’t seem to work in Chrome, but Firefox does the trick.

 

**Akhenaten**

Okay, so I make several jabs at Akhenaten during Crowley and Aziraphale’s conversation about religion, so I feel obligated to defend myself. The thing you have to understand about the ancient Egyptians is that they were _great_ at doing one thing consistently. Like, _tremendously_ good at it. _Millennia_ good. And then one day the pharaoh Akhenaten gets it into his head that, hmm, you know what Egypt needs? _Monotheism_. So he changes his name from Amenhotep IV (you know, a proper Egyptian name) to Akhenaten. Aten is the name of the god he decides is The Only Big Deal, but he doesn’t disavow the existence of the traditional Egyptian gods, so technically it’s monolatry, not monotheism. He moves the capital from Thebes to a new city he builds called Amarna, which is dedicated wholly to Aten.

So everyone moves to Amarna, and, strangely enough, _the style of art changes_. It’s bad. Like, _really bad_. So bad I don’t want to embed pictures bad. [Just look at it](http://blog.hmns.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/amarna7.jpg). It’s bad, right?

*lets out breath* Okay, so it’s not _necessarily_ *bad*, _per_ _se_ , but I maintain that Amarna did for Egyptian art what [the Tetrarchs](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Venice_%E2%80%93_The_Tetrarchs_03.jpg) did for [Roman art](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Statue-Augustus.jpg).

Anyway.

After Akhenaten died everyone was like ‘screw that crap,’ moved back to Thebes, and switched back to worshipping the regular gods. There was a bit of a succession problem because the next few pharaohs kept dying young (Tut included). When Horemheb became pharaoh sixteen years after Akhenaten’s death, everyone was so delighted to have a sane pharaoh again that they struck the names and memories of Akhenaten and his successors from history and replaced them with Horemheb. Ah, ancient history.

In any case, everyone totally abandoned Amarna, making it a great place to do archaeological research!

 

**The Palace at Thebes**

Speaking of cool stuff, the palace at Thebes that Aziraphale snoops around in is called Malqata (also spelled Malkata). It’s fascinating in its own right; here are some pics.

And here are some modern interpretations of what the palace might have looked like:

 

**The Sale Price of Pathtumon’s Dagger**

Now something really quite sad is the tale of how I arrived at the sale price of “nearly twenty debens” for Pathtumon’s dagger when Crowley mentions having sold it towards the end of the fic.

First of all, proper money hadn’t been invented yet (hence wagering in cows), but the Egyptians had units for larger quantities (shats and debens) based on the value of gold. A shat was worth 7.5 grams of gold, and a deben was worth twelve times as much (so 90 grams of gold). Since Pathtumon’s dagger was made of solid gold, this meant I could calculate its value in debens (with a little extra added for its superior craftsmanship, of course)!

I’ll spare you the math, but it involved finding a similar dagger of known dimensions, weight, and material, looking up an index of density-to-weight values for metals, and extrapolating from there. ;)

Also, here’s the dagger I was basing Pathtumon’s off of (found in King Tut’s tomb):

Unrelated to anything but still interesting is the fact that King Tut had another dagger, this one made of iron. Iron was actually incredibly rare in ancient Egypt (whereas gold was everywhere), and based on the composition we know that the iron for the blade came from a meteorite. Cool, huh?

 

**Aziraphale’s Necklace**

The collared necklace Crowley gives Aziraphale is too beautiful not to show you. Here’s its inspiration, from the Petrie Museum in London:

 

**Hieroglyphic Scene Breaks**

So these last few months I may have, ah, taught myself how to read and write basic hieroglyphics… *nervous laugh*

The image in the scene breaks is one I made myself, and it transliterates as _pursh_ , meaning “to separate, to divide, to split.”

Honestly the best part about learning hieroglyphics was the fact that we’ve only been able to do it for the last two hundred years. Jean-François Champollion deciphered the Rosetta Stone in 1822, and we’ve made huge leaps and bounds since then, but…do you _know_ how much _practically every early Western civilization idolized the Egyptians?_ The Romans nicked obelisks to put in their hippodromes, and both they and the Greeks were convinced that the Egyptians had had the whole universe figured out. Scholars were doing their absolute best to translate hieroglyphics up through the early modern period, and all-around awesome dude Athanasius Kircher (the most famous scholar/scientist you’ve never heard of) wrote an entire book on his (incorrect) attempt to decipher the language. These people would have _sold their souls_ (okay, maybe not Kircher, he was a Jesuit) to know how to read hieroglyphics, and I, on a passing fancy, just wandered over to my local library and plucked a book entitled _How to Read Egyptian Hieroglyphics: A Step-By-Step Guide to Teach Yourself_ straight off the shelf. I can feel Kircher rolling over in his grave at how unfair it all is.

Which reminds me: if you want to teach yourself how to read and write Egyptian hieroglyphics, there’s this great book by Mark Collier and Bill Manley that will do just that! Personally, I think everyone needs to learn this completely useless skill, on the mere basis that we owe it to our Egypt-obsessed predecessors to take advantage of this opportunity.

I managed to weasel my newfound skill into a project for one of my classes, so if you go [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/173939797128/a-crash-course-in-egyptian-hieroglyphics-by-me) you can see a poster I made that will give you a crash course in reading ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics!

 

**The _Titanic_**

Yes, the last scene is a deliberate invitation to go read [A Diamond Sky Above Titanic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077209/chapters/4518417). It actually worked perfectly because a) the scene bookends things so nicely, since the opening scene was Crowley arriving in London _from_ NYC because he was lonely and looking for Aziraphale, and then the ending scene is Crowley and Aziraphale leaving London _for_ NYC, now no longer lonely, and b) I’d already made good use of the White Star Line (which of course owned the _Titanic_ ) earlier in the fic.

All that stuff about the ship Crowley takes from NYC to London (the _Adriatic_ ) is perfectly true. It was running NYC to Southhampton trips on a regular basis in 1908, and was one of the White Star Line’s preeminent ships at the time. Its maiden voyage in 1907 took 7 days, 1 hour, and 45 minutes in poor weather, making it the fastest available ship at the time. I even looked up how Crowley would have gotten from Southhampton to London in 1908—the London and South Western Railway, it turns out.

 

 

ART

 

****

[Crowley and Aziraphale Standing by Pillars](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/173955271208/aziraphale-and-crowley-in-ancient-egypt-click)

I’m particularly proud of this piece, because every aspect of it is historically accurate _except_ Crowley’s golden serpentine armband, which isn’t going to come into fashion for another thousand years. Otherwise, every piece of jewelry they’re wearing has a real-life counterpart sitting in a museum somewhere. The pillars they’re standing in front of are modeled after those at the Temple of Karnak, but are slightly smaller than in real life. I even looked into appropriate skin tones for ancient Egyptians, and there’s actually quite a range, depending on how far north or south you live.

 

 

[The Amulet](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/174079328363/egyptian-amulet-for-my-good-omens-fic-the-curse)

The illustration of the amulet is pretty straightforward, but a lot of thought went into its design! First of all, the Egyptian text I wrote myself, to the best of my ability (see above for more on reading/writing hieroglyphics), and it (supposedly) says:

“By the power of Amun-Ra, lord of the world of the living and the dead, great sun, shall this amulet hold all creatures of spirit. It will bind them in _ib_ , _sheut_ , _ren_ , _ka_ , and _ba_ , by the ties of these knots, twofold of sevenfold.”

I’m sure I made some grammatical mistakes (verb tenses were just as terrible three thousand years ago as they are today), but I’m confident an ancient Egyptian could get the gist of what I was saying. ;)

Another thing of note is the knots. So I read this really fascinating scholarly article on the history of knots and their connotations in the ancient world. Knots were, unsurprisingly, “thought to have the ability to bind forces or present obstacles,” and ‘twice seven knots’ was considered to be the most secure. Ergo, on my amulet, there are two rings of knots, the inner one with seven and the outer one with fourteen. So it’s actually _twice_ twice seven, but hey, I tried.

 

 

[Crowley and Discorporated Aziraphale in the Tomb](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/174498251588/the-tomb-of-horemheb-from-my-good-omens-fic-the)

This one’s also fairly historically accurate, with Crowley sporting a fashionable waistcoat and the correct hieroglyphics adorning the wall and tomb. There should be plenty more rocks than I showed, though, and I took a few liberties with the exact dimensions of the room. All in the name of art…

 

 

MISC.

**Character Names**

Davis & co. are of course all real people, so no surprises there.

The names of the demons in 1908 are more interesting, though I do apologize for giving them all twice as many names as necessary. Abezi-Thibod (“father devoid of counsel”) is one of the demons who fought Moses in Egypt, and the one responsible for hardening Pharaoh’s heart, and in _The Testament of Solomon_ (c. 0-400 AD) he is indeed identified as the son of Beelzebub. He styles himself “Osiris” after the Egyptian god of the underworld. Alongside Abezi-Thibod as a prince of Egypt is Rahab (“violence”), who hinders the parting of the Red Sea. In my fic, she goes by the name of Ba-En-Kekon, which does indeed mean “soul of darkness,” and is from the _Book of the Dead_. Uvall is a Fallen angel and a great duke of Hell, and, in the _Lesser Key of Solomon_ (1600s, compiled from earlier material), he speaks Egyptian, “but not perfectly.” Hence his imperfect speech in my fic! Uvall would rather we call him Am-heh, after a minor Egyptian god from the underworld who resides in a lake of fire; his name means “devourer of millions.” Dumah is the angel of silence and the stillness of death, and one of the angels in Egypt. “Dumah” is also another name for the Hebrew underworld (Sheol), where it translates as “Land of Silence.” Mastemot (derived from Mastema/Mansemat) is a tempting angel (basically a demon in God’s employ) who tried to kill Moses in Exodus 4:24, and also helped the Egyptian sorcerers in their face off against Moses. In my fic, both Dumah and Mastemot would like to be called Anubis (the Egyptian judge in the underworld who supervises the weighing of your heart against a feather), but are instead nicknamed Jannes and Jambres, after the pair of Egyptian sorcerers in the Exodus story.

Switching to ancient Egypt, Seket (whom Pathtumon talks to in place of the Metatron) is “a female angel who dwells in Egypt.” Pathtumon is an angel whose name was invoked by Moses to cause the plague of darkness, and by Solomon to “bind demons.” ;)

 

**Enochian Spell**

The Enochian spell is my awful attempt at translating “O Lord, I hereby call upon you to converse with me, your servant. Amen,” using my usual method (details in [the A/N of _The Inheritance of Eden_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408583/chapters/26249562)).

 

**Exodus**

I’m batting around the idea of writing a quasi-sequel to this addressing the events of the Exodus, but no promises.

 

 

At any rate, thanks for reading my fic! I hope you liked it!

 

 

Addition Nov. 2018:

Here's a lovely piece by [curiouslissa](http://curiouslissa.tumblr.com/) showing Crowley and Aziraphale meeting post-Fall! You can see it on her tumblr [here](http://curiouslissa.tumblr.com/post/179717923647/november-ish-inktober-2018-23-muddy-crowley).


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